One Step Forward
by KeelieThompson1
Summary: 2nd in "One day at a Time" series. Sherlock Holmes never dreamed he would return to this; to a John that had lost so much. Determined to finally be the one that looks after John, Sherlock discovers that the road to recovery is a little different on the other side. But no less painful. Preslash Johnlock
1. Taken

Taken

Sherlock considers how best to help John, while Mycroft considers how best to help Sherlock.

* * *

John slept and Sherlock watched.

He would have to call people soon; call to make arrangements for John, call to book an appointment so he could kill his brother.

It had briefly crossed Sherlock's mind as a possibility when he'd discovered his secret stash had gone, but he had assumed that John had found it and thrown it out in a fit of pique.

Never had he been more annoyed to be wrong.

Unfortunately, if he wanted John back, he would have to toss out the replacements he'd bought last month. John would not get the same comfort that Sherlock did from having drugs within easy reach – half of the fun was appropriating the drugs and there was almost a failure in just reaching out for them with ease.

It practically made it boring.

But he would have to get over that because John would want to use it as an escape and the temptation would be far too much.

It almost hadn't fit. John Watson doing drugs seemed so unlikely as to be laughable. But Sherlock had cured him of a psychosomatic limp, dragged him onto crime scenes and got him arrested. There was no doubt that Sherlock had also been the start of this problem.

With careful hands he touched the bruise on John's jaw again, hating what he could read from it and others that were fading around it. The image of John in some filthy alley way, forced to choke on some man's cock-

Hateful. Wrong. Sherlock's fault.

And, to make matters worse, John had apologised. Over and over until Sherlock wanted to beg for mercy.

It was a torment like no other. While he had been dismantling Moriarty's operation and scouring the globe for leads on the assassins he had pictured what John was doing. He'd spent nights alone in empty rooms wondering whether John had found another insipid, ill-suited girlfriend and married her. There had been the brief occasion when he had fantasized about returning home to John; John who would be furious with him and then overjoyed. John who would finally see what Sherlock had realised after their first six hours together and would kiss him. Pull him close and let Sherlock finally explore-

It had been hard to work out which hurt more – the likely happiness found without Sherlock or the unlikely fantasy- and Sherlock had tried to avoid thinking about either. But this…to find out that something he had wanted to so desperately, valued so highly had been bartered on some street corner-

He had failed John.

No, Mycroft had failed. He had promised, he had sworn to Sherlock that John was safe.

John would be asleep for hours, his body had crashed in relief and Sherlock hadn't been able to watch as John made himself comfortable on the bed and just fell straight to sleep like a four month old baby.

But, just in case, Sherlock wrote a note and left it in plain sight, his mind already wondering when he could provide John with a phone and just text him.

* * *

Stepping into Mycroft's office voluntarily was a little strange but for the first time none of the minions looked amused at his presence. They were as good as a mirror; showing him what must be the expression on his face.

"He's in a meeting-"

Sherlock strode past, not stopping and yanked open the door.

Trade Minister. Dull.

"Out," he said, holding the door for the man. "Now."

"Sherlock," Mycroft stood glaring. "What do you think you are doing? I'm working."

But Sherlock ignored him and fixed the minister with a look. "Leave."

Mycroft pulled back a little, seeming to read something on Sherlock's face. "Go," he dismissed the minister with a frown, not taking his eyes from Sherlock.

The minister looked back and forth idiotically so Sherlock strode over, grabbed the man by his arm, and tossed him it of the room. Sherlock didn't even wait to see if the minister regained his balance before closing the door behind him and staring at the wood of the door.

"Sherlock?"

He didn't turn.

"Sherlock, what is going on?"

Mycroft was close.

Spinning, Sherlock caught his brother off guard and grabbed him by the throat. His fury allowed him to propel them both backwards and across the room to Mycroft's desk, slamming his brother hard upon the wood.

"You promised," he snarled, "you swore to me you would keep an eye on him."

"Sherlock-" Mycroft was clearly trying not to panic as he blinked up at Sherlock in shock.. "I don't know where John is-"

"I do." Sherlock tightened his grip and for the first time Mycroft's eyes widened.

Surprised.

"What happened to him?" Mycroft seemed to be trying to talk to him a calming tone, even as his eyes flickered down to Sherlock's wrist. "Whatever has happened I will help-"

"No," Sherlock hissed pushing Mycroft down, "No. You will stay away. You did this. You told him."

"Told him?"

"You told him what happened on the roof. He had to hear from an assassin?" Sherlock snarled, hating that the tone of his voice slipped into hurt rather than fury.

John had heard what had happened from an assassin.

He could do it, he thought as he looked down at his brother. If he squeezed just that bit tighter then Mycroft would pass out and the world as he knew it would fade…

"It was necessary," Mycroft's voice was becoming a little breathless. "The accusations needed to be retracted. The police needed evidence."

What had he been expecting? Sherlock wondered dimly as he looked down at his brother.

An apology? A flicker of remorse.

Unlikely.

"If you come near us, I will make sure you regret it Mycroft." Sherlock leaned in close. "I am done with you."

He waited, just until he could see the flicker of concern in Mycroft's eyes that Sherlock was deathly serious that time.

Then waited an additional five seconds to allow the message to sink in.

When he was sure the message had been received, he shoved Mycroft down on the desk with a last disgusted push and walked away.

* * *

John was still asleep when he returned. Throwing away the note, Sherlock took up his position again, standing guard by the bed.

Food: John need to eat. Sherlock would need to make a list, perhaps Mrs Hudson could get it…he doubted it would take much to persuade her. And John needed clothes (Sherlock swallowed away any wince that came with that thought), once the shakes started John would soak it all through with sweat-

A list. He needed a list. There were so many things he needed.

* * *

Two hours later the sound of three cars driving up made Sherlock dart to the window. Through the net curtains he could see Mycroft getting out.

No.

There were others with him.

Too many.

How had Mycroft worked it out so quickly? Had Mycroft always known?

It was too late to bar the door, he could hear them on the stairs.

"Don't you dare do this," Sherlock yelled at Mycroft as he walked through the door. "I told you-"

"You will only drag each other down." Mycroft's eyes were stone cold. "This is for your benefit Sherlock, as well as John's."

"I can handle it," Sherlock hissed. "I have told you endlessly I never had a problem-"

"And I don't believe you," Mycroft replied, unmoved. "You never saw yourself back then Sherlock and I will not have Doctor Watson's latest activities drag you back down."

Sherlock saw red and lunged. But this time Mycroft wasn't alone and two of Mycroft's minions grabbed at him pulling him away.

"I will never forgive you for this," Sherlock hissed.

There was the smallest flicker in Mycroft's eyes but he said nothing.

Minutes later, John was being escorted out. Sherlock pulled against the arms holding him, hating the sight of how small John looked. How unlike John. Is John was sturdy, always so sturdy and now he just seemed frail.

So easily broken.

"Let me speak to him," Sherlock begged.

"Of course," Mycroft allowed, looking away from him. "In the car."

Sherlock tugged on his arms and the minions let go quickly.

* * *

"John?"

Tired eyes opened and stared up at him in confusion. "Sherlock?" There was the briefest touch to his arm as if John was just checking he was actually there. "Where-"

Mycroft had graciously allowed Sherlock get in the car alone with John. After all, not even Sherlock could duck out of a parked car utterly surrounded by security.

"Mycroft," Sherlock was barely able to speak the name without shaking with fury, "Has insisted," he added with gritted teeth, "That you go to a clinic."

The panic in John's eyes made Sherlock look away as if an escape route would suddenly present itself.

This couldn't be happening.

"Clinic?" John asked, struggling to bring himself out of sleep.

"He thinks I am the wrong person to aid you in your recovery," Sherlock said.

"He'll be worried about you," John said gently, head falling back against the seat as he reached for Sherlock's hand. "Can't blame him really."

Rigidly fuming, Sherlock closed his eyes. "I would have," he said stonily. "I would have helped you."

"It's fine," John's voice wavered. "Thank you, for last night."

Sherlock snapped his eyes open. John's hand had never touched his. He stared down at the gap and watched John's hand edge slowly back. John was retreating.

"_there are others…other flatmates, friends. Useful, interesting people. You don't need me_"

Even now those words still twisted at Sherlock, the sheer belief that John had in what he had said was agony. And now, here was Mycroft, forcing Sherlock to seemingly confirm that belief.

Desperate to show John was wrong, Sherlock grabbed at John's hand earning a startled glance.

"Come back to me," Sherlock said suddenly. "Afterwards. Promise me."

John stared at him and Sherlock had absolutely no idea what it was John was looking for in that moment, but John gave a ghost of that brilliant smile and nodded.

"Seems to be what I do at the moment," John muttered with an attempt at his old sense of humour.

Relief, at so many things, bowled Sherlock over. Curling up over John's hand, he pressed a fierce kiss to it and nodded against the skin there. Above him, John shifted and then seemed to place a kiss to Sherlock's hair.

"Is it bad?" John asked into the silence.

Memories of long agonising nights and desperate craving that scoured his bones made Sherlock nod.

"How…how long will it take?" John asked sounding less confident now.

"Depends," Sherlock said honestly, still not moving. "As long as it needs to."

No expectations. That was part of what had destroyed John before. No time frames, no demands, no expectations; that was the best thing Sherlock could do for John now.

"Do they know?" John asked sounding wrecked. "Does everyone know?"

Pulling away, Sherlock looked up at John. "No," he replied firmly. "The one blessing of Mycroft is that he is discreet."

"Don't be too hard on him," John said gently. "He's doing what he thinks is best for you."

Sherlock gave him a long look. "No," he said, "he isn't."

* * *

"You understand my reasoning?" Mycroft asked as the car drove away.

Sherlock watched the car, his eyes fixated on it.

"He will get the best care, the best recovery."

The car disappeared around the corner and, for an insane thirty seconds, Sherlock waited hoping stupidly that it would somehow reappear.

But of course it wouldn't.

"Sherlock, really, I understand that you're upset-"

Sherlock turned to Mycroft and watched the way Mycroft's eyes scanned his face looking for a hint of something.

"Sherlock-"

Sherlock spat at him.

Then without a single word or look to see how Mycroft reacted, turned away.

It was too much like a dream, like a wonderful dream. There was nothing left of John, as if his presence had been wiped from existence again and Sherlock slid down the bedroom door.

Lost.

It took a while, but as his eyes finally found the map they alighted on that message.

_You missed something in the park. SM._

And slowly Sherlock got back up.


	2. Wolves

Wolves

Chapter Summary: Three weeks on and Moran has been caught.

* * *

Hands pulled him back, kept him away and dragged him along the hall.

Or at least they tried.

Dimly he was aware that he was screaming something; a litany of threats and promises, bargaining to those that held him and kept him away from the one thing he wanted more than anything else on earth.

Moran.

Dead.

The door of the opposite interview room was flung open and Lestrade, who seemed to be far more adept at holding Sherlock back than he would have thought, tumbled them back through as Donovan quickly shut the door after them

Sherlock scrambled out of Lestrade's grasp to throw himself at the handle of the door just as the lock clicked.

As if he could scrape through the plastic with his finger nails, Sherlock clawed at the door, kicking at it uselessly. Behind him, Lestrade remained silent, still on the floor where Sherlock at some point had shoved him.

As much as he wished it Sherlock wasn't going to be able to claw his way through the door with sheer will alone. Resting his head on the surface he took a breath to refocus himself.

"Open the door," he said, voice muffled.

"If you think I'm stupid enough to keep the key on me when I'm in here with you, then you've got another one coming." Lestrade shifted against the wall and rested an elbow on a drawn up knee. "What the hell is going on?"

Stalking away from the door, Sherlock examined the room. There had to be some way out. Following the walls with his eyes and hands he started to dissect the room for escape exits.

"Look, I get it. Moran was the only one left," Lestrade said suddenly. "You gave up three years of your life to take down the organisation. You must have felt angry about it."

The window. A quick glance had told him there was little in the room he could use to shatter it.

"And you must have been forced into doing things you weren't proud of," Lestrade added and Sherlock could feel the man's gaze on him. "Moriarty took away your life and Moran is all you have left to vent against."

The door really was the only way out then. The hinges perhaps?

"They took away everything that mattered,"

A half image threatened that Sherlock pushed away hurriedly, causing him to tense slightly at Lestrade's soothing tone.

"Sherlock?" behind him Lestrade shifted. "Tell me what he did to you."

Bruises-

_Do not think about it._

"Nothing," Sherlock snarled. "I'd never met the man before today."

"Then-" Lestrade's breath suddenly hitched. "You said you'd found John," he whispered as if accusing Sherlock of something.

The lock. Sherlock knelt and studied the lock carefully.

"Is…Is John still alive? Did Moran-"

Alive? Sherlock's hand shook on the door as the image pressed again. A more recent one this time of John, curled up on the too white sheets, tremors racing through his body as his fogged mind panicked and confused it with the left over tremor from Afghanistan.

Flinching-

Alive?

"Sherlock-"

"Shut up," Sherlock roared, pressing his head to the metal as hard as he could to use the cold and the pain to keep his mind on the correct line of thought.

"Is he dead?" Lestrade sounded panicked now.

"No," Sherlock shook his head. "No."

There was a relieved sigh behind Sherlock.

It was impossible.

Manic chuckles crawled up from his throat and battered his breath against the door. His grip on the handle went from exploratory to hanging on for life as the laughter overwhelmed him.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade breathed. Behind him there was a shift of cloth against the tacky floor. "Sherlock…" he sounded terrified.

The door was wet under his cheeks as he kept laughing.

"What's…what's so funny?"

The chuckles drifted away and Sherlock smiled at the door, before shifting, turning himself over to sit with his back to the door facing Lestrade who blinked at him looking stunned.

"You," Sherlock leaned his head back. "Your relief!" he let the word play on his tongue as he spat it out. Relief. Such a stupid word. Relief. A word to use when situations got better. When you could breathe again.

Then why did Sherlock feel as if he'd been holding his breath for three years? Why did it feel as if his lungs had been ripped away three weeks ago?

Relief was a myth. The word struck up a quick fix connotation. Relief would have been walking into the flat and seeing John sitting there, forgiving him in a breath and looking at him with that quiet pride that Sherlock had always basked in.

Relief was a fairy tale. It would never have happened like that.

"Is he all right?" Lestrade asked, seeming to brace himself.

_Are you al__l __right?_

How many times had they said that to each other? How many times had John asked in a quiet, gentle tone, in an amused rough voice, in that wonderful frank, wry laugh?

The light above was missing a lampshade. Purposefully. It was meant to imply starkness, efficiency, without comfort.

"What did Moran do to him?"

The light was almost painful to look at. "Do you know how wolves hunt Lestrade?" he asked flatly. "They find their prey, usually in a pack and they'll pick."

"The weakest," Lestrade asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "The one that's the most advantageous to go for. Opportunity, Inspector, is what wolves adore. And if it's prey they would never dare get close to without that opportunity well, then that just makes them that much more determined."

"Sherlock…what are we talking about?" Lestrade asked sounding suddenly worried.

"They'll separate their prey." The Light was moving, barely, in a repetitive motion that could be swinging feet. "They'll use every opportunity imaginable. Anything to hide what is happening from the rest of the pack to keep the prey isolated. Alone." The light was starting to blur into nothing. "Lost," he added his voice almost inaudible.

Then shook it away. "They surround it, panic it. Every option is worse than the one before. Every struggle rips new wounds." The light blurred again. "And the prey…it falls. Collapses under the weight," he swallowed. "Every cry for help, miniscule though it is, is suffocated by the wolves. Every hint or clue erased."

"Sherlock-"

Closing his eyes against the fuzzy room just made his cheeks even wetter.

Focus.

"Did you not hear it?" Sherlock asked, snapping his gaze to the very pale Inspectors, "Did you not see?" bitter laughter bubbles up again. "You're all so thick," he spat slowly. "So blind. Useless."

"Sherlock," Lestrade's voice wavered, "what happened to John?"

Bruises. Thumbs pressed into soft skin, pressed against bone. A patronising pinch of the jaw to give filthy, cruel instructions. Scrapped shins and knees where thrusts had pushed at him. A broken finger from a small scuffle on the street that John hadn't even known he had. Malnourishment, fever, pains and unending aches as his body shook and battered against the loss of oblivion.

"Tell me Inspector," Sherlock drew up his knees and leant his elbows on them. "Is it that you can't work it out, or that you don't want to?"

Lestrade swallowed.

"Deduce it," Sherlock lay the words down like a gauntlet.

Lestrade shook his head.

"Oh, Lestrade," his voice had taken on a cruel note. "You don't want to see it do you? When did you last see John? For a drink?" he asked mockingly. "Did you talk about old times? Try to erase me from the night? How many times did you do it before he snapped?"

"He never-"

"He wouldn't," Sherlock agreed. "But he started seeing you less and less. Did you try and welcome him into your friends? People who would have mocked and joked about the Great Fake Detective? Tell me Lestrade did you see it? The wide eyes, the speech patterns? You were always so wonderfully adept at spotting them on me."

Lestrade shook his head, "No…no you're mad. John's a doctor, he wouldn't…"

"He found it. My secret stash that you never managed to find."

Lestrade made a choked noise. "Why didn't he-"

"You said weak," Sherlock replied casually. "Funnily enough, John would have said the exact same thing."

Lestrade looked away.

"It's a spiral isn't it? Drugs, drugs, loss of control, loss of money, loss of house, loss of options, loss of drugs…" loss of self-worth, loss of self-value.

"Your brother-"

"Moran," Sherlock answered. "I told you Inspector; wolves separate their prey from the pack. They're very adept at hiding from the CCTV."

Silence.

"It's worse," Sherlock frowned at the window, "than having him kidnapped and hurt. John could have…but this. He will never blame anyone but himself for this."

"You blame Moran?"

"I blame-" Sherlock broke off and shook his head sharply.

"And if I let you in there now; into the interview what would you-"

"Kill him," Sherlock announced calmly and then met Lestrade, stare for stare. "Since fratricide is proving to be irritatingly elusive at the moment. I doubt anyone would complain too loudly."

"That would help John."

Furious, Sherlock tensed, everything feeling sharp and deadly. "Help? Help? I cannot help! He thinks he has failed me, the idiotic man! Beyond logic and reason he thinks that he should apologise and beg forgiveness when I look at him. That he should thank me for deigning to visit. Help?"

"Sherlock-" Lestrade reached over. "It will take time but it will get better. Be the way it used to be-"

"No it won't," Sherlock threw himself away from Lestrade's touch and scrambled up. "You have no idea-" he cut himself off as he started to pace. "He thinks he's broken. And I'm not an idiot; who would come to me to help with feelings?" he sneered the word as if it was something filthy.

Lestrade let out a puff of air. "You need to talk to someone."

"Yes. Moran."

"Sherlock, there is no bloody way I am letting you anywhere near the man. This is the closest you are ever gonna get! No I meant talk to someone with experience off these things."

"Who?" Sherlock couldn't decide whether he was asking out of bitter derision or desperate hope.

"People have gone through this before you know."

"Really? Men have committed fake suicide to save-"

"Not this exact situation," Lestrade snapped. "Experience in helping those with drug problems-"

Sherlock snorted amused. "I hardly need an induction to that."

"-And rape victims."

"I never said that," Sherlock froze. "I never-"

"You think I'm an idiot? I know what people in John's situation do, the choices they have. And I know you, I know what bothers you." Lestrade sighed. "I know what you're like when someone uses something you want."

"Uses? That's a very clean word. He has bruises on his chin from-"

It wasn't fair.

Gasping for breath Sherlock put out a hand to steady himself and ended up with his fingers fisted in Lestrade's jacket.

"When did you last eat?"

"Unimportant."

"Sleep?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I needed to find him, I needed to…" Kill, hurt, torture, destroy.

Do something.

"The damage is done." Lestrade murmured quietly. "And this isn't going to be easy Sherlock. It won't be quick and it won't be neat."

Sherlock shifted his grip on the jacket.

"It isn't what you're good at, or what you're known for at all. You'll screw up and make mistakes."

"Then what's the point?" Sherlock hissed.

"I guess…the point is, is John worth it?"

Sherlock looked up.

"Is he worth being unsure for? Is he worth slowing down for? Is he worth putting feelings before logic? Is he worth listening to?"

Slowly ,Sherlock unfurled his fist and stepped back , eyes desperately searching.

"Is he worth being wrong for?"


	3. What's needed

What's needed

Chapter Summary: When John returns it takes Sherlock a while to work out what he needs to do.

* * *

It was like living with a ghost. The ghost of Doctor John H Watson. A ghost who smiled with a strange tightness, who hid upstairs and in utter silence. One who barely drank or ate or, if Sherlock were any judge, slept.

When John had returned to Barker Street, Sherlock had been ready. Ready to deal with anything, anything, but this; this polite and friendly distance, the impervious wall John seemed to have built.

To Sherlock's deep irritation John had taken a job at one of the shops down the road. Rent, that must have been almost all of John's wage, was placed on the downstairs table every month for Mrs Hudson and the bills were always dealt with on time.

Worst was that there was nothing to read; it wasn't that John had become particularly deceptive or had developed a sudden ability to play at Sherlock's games, no, it was that John seemed to have buried himself so deep that it was impossible to catch a real glimpse of him now.

_"You know you need to let him feel as if he can do this. You can't offer to pay for things or offer to help. He needs to feel as if he is worthwhile again." _

Lestrade. The man was surprisingly useful when it came to sentiment. It was logical, it made sense; it was an excellent point (though perhaps a pity that Lestrade seemed unable to use that logic in the practicalities of his cases).

It was just bloody hard to do.

And it took a while for Sherlock to realise that Lestrade's advice, was sound, but flawed. John wanted to function. Nothing else. Nothing at all. He stayed late at his shift but never to socialise. He came home at lunch to save on money. It never took John longer than a brisk walk to and from the shop and he never talked to anyone on the way or took a detour for a coffee.

And John treated him like a stranger; they'd never acted like that, even when they had been strangers to each other.

Enough.

* * *

"Do you know it takes you precisely seventeen minutes and between thirty and fifty seconds to walk home?" Sherlock asked as he lay on the sofa and John walked to climb the next flight of stairs.

The floorboard creaked as John paused.

"Really?" came the polite reply. "I never realised."

Then the floorboard creaked again as John moved forward once more and climbed the stairs. Narrowing his eyes at the ceiling as if force of will would allow him to see through plaster and wooden floorboards, through carpet and dust, Sherlock waited.

The door to the room opened but never closed and Sherlock could picture it so clearly, John, standing in the doorway, staring at what was on his bed. Years ago, John would have been shouting down by now, screeching at Sherlock like a fishwife. The floorboards announced John's movements as he walked in, stopped again.

Staring. John was staring at what was on his bed. That was not a good sign; dangerous in fact and not in a good way.

A minute passed. Two. Three. With every passing second Sherlock could feel something within him sink; he had been far too cautious, listened when he should have demanded, waited when he should have taken action.

Four minutes.

Then a creak of John leaning forward, studying, thinking.

Five minutes.

A smaller creak, a shuffle; someone moving to pick something up, in this instance John picking up the bag of white powder Sherlock had left on the bed.

Six minutes.

Sherlock closed his eyes, still able to see John in his mind.

Seven minutes.

Then, mercifully, a creak towards the door, then more, picking up pace to clatter down the stairs at such speed Sherlock opened his eyes, preparing in case John continued on down.

But no; the creaking paused at the door. John was looking at him then, trying to decide what to say.

"It's sugar," Sherlock said to the ceiling.

John let out a long breath.

It was impossible to tell if it was disappointment or relief.

"Why?" John breathed eventually.

"Seven minutes is far too long to make up your mind John," Sherlock scolded dryly. "You want it."

There was the sound of skin against skin; John was clenching his hands, rubbing his thumbs along his curled forefingers to steady himself.

"And not because you need it, or because you long for it, but because you have given yourself nothing else besides the drugs."

"I haven't-" John breathed sounding hurt and appalled that Sherlock would think he had been using. Idiot man; as if Sherlock would have missed that.

"What are you John?"

"An addict," came the automatic reply.

Sherlock let the silence drone on for half a minute.

"Nothing else?" he asked pointedly. "There is no other defining quality?

John made a startled noise.

"If you have nothing else," Sherlock said still looking up. "Next time you might not turn away. And next time it might not be sugar."

There was a bitter snort.

That was unexpected.

Startled at this new piece of the puzzle Sherlock sat up and twisted in one quick, smooth move to study John, who was watching him with trepidation.

"You don't socialise with the people at work, you don't stop and treat yourself, you no longer engage in small talk with those you meet out and about. You have ceased to care about what milk we have and where I keep it. You make no comment on my experiments, you tidy as needed and around whatever I am doing."

Sherlock waited but John seemed to waiting too. Then as if disappointed he hadn't heard something he looked away.

What had he missed? A little panicked, Sherlock went over his list. There was something he'd missed, something important and vital to John's life.

"You stay away from your army friends and doctor friends," Sherlock said, noting the way John's jaw tightened at the mention. "You don't travel anywhere you might be recognised by the homeless friends you made, your version of survivor's guilt I imagine-"

John was looking more and more distressed but none of the reason where the one that had made him look away.

What was he missing?

"You don't come to crime scenes with me-"

John mumbled something that had sounded suspiciously like 'Why would I?'

Clarity.

Sharp, focused, crystal clear and painfully bright clarity.

Because Sherlock knew exactly what would be his vital 'thing', and it was a small measure of comfort to know that sentiment was still reciprocated.

"Stop mumbling; it's an irritating habit. I'm thirsty, make me tea." Sherlock swung himself back to lie on the couch unsure if he could keep the "lost interest" expression on his face.

John let out an annoyed snort, then a long breath.

The kettle went on and Sherlock started to feel as if maybe he could stop holding his breath.

John still needed him; still wanted to be wanted, still thought he was vital. Still wanted Sherlock to stay close rather than the measured distance he'd been holding himself at.

There was still some measure of hope.

* * *

He hated it.

Abhorred it.

Being close but treating John as if there had been no change, as if John hadn't been hurt and beaten down whilst he'd been away. But John couldn't abide being coddled now that he was starting to stand on his own two feet and needed Sherlock to treat him as he always had.

He'd been prepared for quiet, careful nights just the two of them. Sherlock had mentally readied himself for discussion about what John had to do to survive, accepted that he would have to listen, to be comforting and understand that there was no quick fix. The reward would be intimacy, emotional intimacy, that might have led them down a different path, formed a different relationship for them. Images of staying up talking with John and being allowed to lie next to him and just feel that he was alive and warm had spurred Sherlock on to learning a small measure of patience.

But Sherlock should have understood by now that John Watson never did the expected.

What hurt was that he wasn't even sure John understood what he himself needed at the moment. Moments when John looked unsure or lost when Sherlock snapped at him were like torture because if Sherlock moved in sympathy, spoke in soothing tones or just acted with a small measure of obvious consideration, John would instantly retreat and it would take days for that mighty wall to start to tumble.

* * *

John reacted the same with Lestrade, to the point where Sherlock had to drag the Inspector aside.

"Jesus," Lestrade said two weeks later. "What the hell do you do? It's like a bloody unwinnable strategy game: you act like nothing happens he open up, you try to deal with that and he closes back up."

Sherlock nodded, watching John as he stood by Donovan, who had no idea what had happened in the three year period.

Not unwinnable, but still not easy.

But then, when had John ever been that, and when had Sherlock ever wanted easy?

It seemed ironic now.

"He knows how you feel though, right?" Lestrade asked hands twisting in such a way that made it clear to Sherlock he wanted a cigarette.

"He won't believe it," Sherlock restrained the hiss as Donovan clearly said something that John couldn't cover up his reaction to. "He wouldn't accept it now."

Shaking his head, Lestrade sighed. "Will he ever?" he asked doubtfully. "That's a hell of a lot to go through-"

Sherlock walked away, not wanting to hear it out-loud.


	4. Nudging

Nudging

On occasion, John does need the odd nudge in the right direction.

* * *

In the two months since Sherlock had accepted this idiotic play at pretending the last three and a half years hadn't happened, John had been on five cases, three social after work drinks (in which he drank orange juice), two coffee meetings with Lestrade and one date.

It was the last that Sherlock has obsessively stalked, and had then left after the first hour when it became clear that John was in no way ready for anything and was just trying because he thought he should.

John was exceedingly good at pretending things were fine.

It was annoying.

John was making his way up the stairs quicker than usual.

Pausing. Clearly trying to catch his breath, compose himself before entering, relaxing.

Idiot.

"Got the milk," John announced, voice wavering slightly. Sherlock heard the slight intake of a frustrated breath; no doubt John was annoyed at the stumble and was mentally berating himself.

Sherlock watched him, sitting crossed legged on the sofa as he tracked John's movements. Noted the hesitant way John put the shopping bag down and the slow attempts at putting the shopping away. John looked up once, caught him staring and said nothing.

Shame, embarrassment, doubt of skills.

John had spotted a homeless acquaintance across the street once and had stomped his way around the flat for a day; no doubt angry at himself and unsure of how to process to torrid of reactions. This was different though…

Who would make John feel ashamed, uncomfortable but not stir up any of John's anger? Someone who had no idea obviously because otherwise John would have looked defensive.

"How is Sarah?"

John dropped the bread and then flew down to retrieve it, as if Hovis would be marching up the steps any minute now to complain about his abuse of their product. "She…fine," John said, pointedly turning his back to Sherlock to hide his expression.

John never asked for an explanation anymore. Sherlock couldn't decide if that meant he didn't want to know what gave him away or whether it was because he was far too aware of what Sherlock saw.

Sherlock suspected it was the latter.

"Why didn't you take the job?"

John stopped and seemed to stare at something before he slowly turned to Sherlock. "I…that would be ridiculously stupid," John muttered, placing the tea in the tea jar with much more care than was needed.

"You are still registered with the medical council," Sherlock commented.

The was a nod. "Yes, but…" John struggled and just broke off shaking his head. "It's been too long."

Misdirection. Sherlock could play that game. "There are courses. I could probably find you twenty in a minute."

The plastic bag from Tesco's suffered in Sherlock's stead as it was scrunched up brutally in John's hands. "I'm still recovering," John excused.

"It's colds and stomach bugs. A trained monkey could do the job," Sherlock waved a dismissive hand.

"Dammit!" John exploded, throwing the bag to the floor. "You know why!"

Sherlock watched him coolly and merely raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Do I?"

John shook his head, leaning on the table heavily. When he looked up, Sherlock scanned his face, relieved to see that a lot of the shame had faded away to be replaced by anger.

"You do not put a drug addict in charge of prescriptions," John said firmly, standing up again with his head tilted in challenge.

"Ah, yes. I'd forgotten how often surgeries hand out cocaine and heroin."

"A drug is a drug-"

"And an addict an addict. Oh my, I must alert Lestrade and tell him I cannot possibly help him; I might accidently bump into a dealer at processing and be overcome with the sudden urge to-"

"That's hardly the same."

"Really? And how do I know that my cases won't lead me to a drugs ring? Won't put me in contact with dealers who would do anything to be allowed to have their activity continue?" Sherlock considered that for a moment. "I have had four moments like that this year."

"Yeah well…" John shifted, "You're you."

That was the most thoughtless, stupid argument to ever come out of his mouth. "You should have more faith in yourself," Sherlock muttered opening up the newspaper as if bored by the conversation. "It is beyond dull to listen to self-deprecation."

John snorted and behind the paper Sherlock frowned.

* * *

A week later he climbed up the stairs and made his way into the flat. John was still awake, likely enjoying the silence as Sherlock was meant to be on a case.

"Solved it?" John asked, staring at the television as it blasted out rubbish.

"Where did you hide the first aid box?"

John's head turned to him slowly and Sherlock held up his bloody arm, watching how John paled and instantly switched off the television.

"What happened?" John asked, standing and walking over.

"A man had a knife," Sherlock replied unhelpfully, rolling his eyes as John pushed him gently towards a seat. "And evidently a temper."

John sat down having found the box quickly and a pair of scissors. "Hand," he ordered.

Sherlock watched him, as John held Sherlock's hand steady and then cut into his shirt and jacket with the scissors to push the material away. His hand was warm from being in the cosy flat and still slightly more tanned that Sherlock's own. He'd started to put on weight again, enough that he now longer looked quite so emaciated.

The broken finger had been on the hand intertwined with his own and Sherlock stared at the finger, almost unable to see where the break had been. The finger would always tilt slightly in a strange direction but only those who looked and stared for an age would be able to spot that.

Then John shifted, gently pulling Sherlock's arm along the table and studying the wound with both hands and a careful eye.

"You'll need stitches," John said slowly. "You should go to A&E-"

"It's a Saturday night. I am not sitting in A&E with the drunken plebeians that flock to the place like it's their mecca. You do it."

John glanced at the first aid kid clearly undecided.

Huffing loudly, Sherlock used his free hand to knock the box closer to him and take out a needle and the thread.

"You'll have to thread it," Sherlock announced. "I assume you still are capable of performing a task most housewives are capable of?"

"You can't sew up your own arm," John argued.

"Well you won't do it so clearly-"

Grabbing at the needle John made an exasperated noise and stood to sterilise it using boiling water.

* * *

John was bent over his arm, working on it so slowly that Sherlock almost sighed at the amount of time it was taking. There was a time when John would have been scolding him and making tea as he stitched and still be finished in half the time.

Instead he allowed himself to observe.

John now kept his hair ruthlessly short and was always shaved, as if to distance himself utterly from how he had been living months ago. It didn't suit him but it was understandable.

Eyelashes were almost lying against his cheeks as John squinted a little, not out of any eye issue but just from sheer concentration.

He still didn't trust himself.

His face was filled out now and there were no bruises-

"Don't tense up," John murmured.

Nodding, Sherlock pulled his thoughts away from looking at how John had improved over the past few months. Instead he stared at the interesting nose, curved eyebrows and the skin that was flushed with heat and tight in concentration.

One day he would have permission, would be expected to lean forward and explore how John tasted, how he smelled. The feel of him, the sound. He would be able to trace skin over bone and feel softness again.

Clearly feeling Sherlock's eyes on him John raised his own without moving his head. "Yes?"

"Could we finish this before I bleed to death?"

"Don't be so dramatic, otherwise next time I'll leave you to the mercy of Saturday night at A&E."

John's stitching had sped up and his shoulders had relaxed.

It took everything Sherlock had to not smile and to huff as if sulking.

* * *

"So," Lestrade asked the next day. "What did John say?"

"About?"

"You being a bloody idiot!" Lestrade shook his head as he sipped at his coffee, staring down at the newest body. "You got it seen to then," he added, nodding at Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock held it up. "John did it."

Lestrade nodded then jumped as if startled.

"You…" he gaped at Sherlock, "that's why you took your bloody coat off!"

"It was warm," Sherlock stared ahead, clasping his hands behind his back and feeling the stitches tug a little.

"You let him stab you!"

"That would have been stupid," Sherlock lifted his chin innocently. "I simply allowed a small amount of discomfort for the quick outcome for a case. I told you that last night."

Lestrade nodded. "Right," he shook his head. "But I assume the fact that it killed two birds with one stone didn't hurt either?"

Sherlock smiled. "Sometimes Lestrade I almost wonder if there's a brain hidden under there."

He could hear the eye-roll. "Did it work?" Lestrade asked after a moment.

"I'm insulted you feel the need to ask." Sherlock turned on his heel. "It's a three. Dull. The mother's half- sister did it. Arrest her and look for the scented fake flowers, probably in the kitchen."

Lestrade didn't move. "Might need a doctor to explain the effects of the poison and check none of them have it?"

Ah…

"A six," Sherlock corrected as he turned around. "Clearly I should just check the neighbour didn't have any grudges."

"Yeah," Lestrade nodded. "Good point."


	5. The Calm and the Storm

The Calm and the Storm.

Chapter Summary: A case with a homeless victim raises some issues.

* * *

Between his own plots and Lestrade's genuine attempts to be helpful they had managed to coax John onto crime scenes through sheer genius and a surprisingly good partnership. John, for all that he would glare suspiciously at Sherlock, never seemed to realise that Lestrade was nudging John back into the swing of things as if John was a nervous puppy, unwilling to go on its first walk.

First it was the poisoning; checking for symptoms, then Lestrade had begged John to 'translate' Sherlock's questioning method into phrases that wouldn't get them all thrown out of the building. Before long John was looking rather confused as he stood next to a body at a crime scene one evening as if the past few years had never happened.

For the next two weeks John conducted his version of a sulk; he slammed the kettle down rather enthusiastically and refused to bring Sherlock his tea, instead choosing to leave it on the work top where Sherlock could see the steam fade, and would then stomp upstairs.

Fortunately, John's attempts at sulking faded very quickly and Mrs Hudson always seemed to be conveniently about when John tormented Sherlock with the threat of cooling tea.

"And why do you need me today?" John asked as they sat in the taxi together.

Sherlock debated his options as he texted Lestrade. "It's an interesting case John," he said, fingers flying over the screen. "Do you really want to make me think of yet another excuse or can we just accept you are now coming on cases again?"

Out of the corner of his eyes he could see John narrow his eyes and then nod slightly, clearly trying not to grin in amusement.

"The head is missing," Sherlock sat back happily, "Anderson thinks it might be in a nearby bin."

"And I suppose you know without even looking that it's not in a bin."

"It seems a safe assumption if the conclusion was Anderson's contribution."

* * *

"I just don't see why you immediately assume it's a good case?"

"A beheading?" Sherlock leapt out of the taxi, "How often does one of these occur…at least when there isn't a large method of transport involved," he added begrudgingly.

Then froze, taking in the scene and closed the door over behind him, prompting a muffled curse from John.

There was something not good…what was it? Sherlock scanned the scene. What was it that he had seen that had made him-

The victim.

_Loose fitting shoes, frayed trousers. No socks._

Lestrade was a bloody idiot.

Sherlock turned as John pushed the door open. "What the hell was that about?" John demanded staring at him as if he'd lost his mind.

"We need eggs."

John's face screwed up and he looked over Sherlock's shoulder, "What are you blethering on about?" he asked, sounding frustrated.

And then his face went white.

Damn it, damn it, damn it!

Lestrade was a dead man.

Reaching around, Sherlock tried to push John back into the taxi, but John resisted, swallowing heavily and pushing himself out and onto the pavement.

"You stayin'?" the driver asked, looking peeved at their antics.

Without even bothering to look at the notes, Sherlock thrust them at the driver. "Stay," he ordered as John walked closer to the body, "And I'll double it."

As he walked away he could hear the taxi driver start to count merrily.

"Sherlock," Lestrade greeted glancing over at them. "Vic has no ID-"

Sherlock hissed with annoyance. "You are so thick," he snarled, "Look at him, you idiot!"

In truth Sherlock had no idea which 'him' he was referring to. John's ice white face gave it away as clearly as the typical homeless markers. Lestrade's tired face and red eyes were no excuse.

"What?" Lestrade glanced down and at John. "Am I missing something?"

There. The tone was too fake, too forced.

Lestrade knew damned well it was a homeless victim.

Sherlock almost felt his mouth drop. Why? Why would Lestrade be doing this? What possible use could it be to force John into this situation?

"He was homeless," John murmured, sounding utterly wretched.

"Yes, we had worked that out," Anderson replied snottily, suddenly appearing from the side of one of the industrial bins.

"Less than a month," John seemed not to hear Anderson's attempt at being witty. Sherlock glanced at him, and then back at the body, trying to see what John had spotted to jump to that conclusion.

"What, are you channelling freak now?" Donovan asked from behind them.

Frustrated that he couldn't spot what John had, Sherlock dragged his eyes back and glared at Donovan, then at Lestrade, torn between who should face the full heat of his wrath.

"I-" John started.

Panicked, Sherlock clamped a hand over his mouth and swung John around to face the taxi, "Get in the taxi John," he ordered fiercely.

John obeyed instantly, stumbling towards it and Sherlock launched towards Lestrade.

"Why?" he snarled. "Why do this? He was fine-"

"Just because you dragged him to a crime scene and can have a joke with him now, does not mean he was or is fine. If he was, he wouldn't look like he'd just seen a ghost," Lestrade argued furiously.

Frustration welled up and Sherlock had the desperate urge to kick out at something, to beat the entire situation into submission and into a shape that fit his perception of how this should be happening.

Lestrade squared up, eyes flashing with a dare.

"Do not use him to prove a point to me again," Sherlock snapped.

"Then listen," Lestrade snarled back. "For someone who's so fucking good at observing, you never seem to listen."

Sherlock stood back haughtily and looked around at the officers who had frozen in their duties and had been watching the scene nervously. Donovan looked as if she were ready to leap into action and protect Lestrade should Sherlock make one more move. Slowly, Sherlock met their eyes, letting his gaze flicker contemptuously over every single one of the officers present.

Then he looked down at the body. Saw the weapon, the attacker, the location of death and the likely places for the head.

"What do you have?" Lestrade asked, sounding tired all of a sudden.

Sherlock smirked and then turned on his heel.

"Oi!" Donovan yelled. "You can't do that; if you know something then you tell us."

Sherlock walked towards the taxi and towards John who was gripping the edge of the door with white knuckles.

"He can't do this!" Donovan sounded as if she'd turned, probably to Lestrade, "It's one thing to refuse to look at a case because it's boring, but it's another think entirely to walk away because the vic isn't important-"

Sherlock didn't hear anything else over the sight of John, shoulders dipping and his fingers skittering across the metal of the car door as if he'd just lost his grip. John swung his gaze up and Sherlock stopped walking towards the taxi when John looked away quickly, shame clear in every line of his body.

"Enough," Lestrade shouted over Donovan's tidal wave of uselessness. "Sherlock get in the car now."

He could do it; turn and flay Donovan's entire life bare to the world, dig up every hidden secret, every insecurity and paper them across the filthy alley walls for all of London to see.

"Sherlock," Lestrade sounded much closer. "Take John home, he looks unwell."

Of course he bloody looked unwell. Scotland Yard had been in fine form today. Sherlock clenched his hands and glared furiously, almost paralysed by the options before him.

He wanted to turn around; to tear into them all and scream out his sheer helpless fury with the situations. He wanted to take John home and hide him, push colour back into his cheeks and breathe life back into the suddenly dulled eyes.

He wanted both so badly he was almost shaking with indecision.

In the end it was the defeated look on John's face that drew him over; the glance that John gave to the street signs as if trying to work out how he could walk home if Sherlock wasn't going to pay the promised extravagant sum to the taxi driver. Not quite trusting himself to even look over his shoulder, Sherlock strode over to John and herded him into the taxi, despising the almost dollish way John just submitted.

Inside they were silent and John shivered.

* * *

John wouldn't stop shaking, even when Sherlock got him inside and into the flat.

What was he meant to do?

Helplessly he looked around and then wandered into his room, pulled off the duvet covers with a careless air, dragged it through the kitchen and wrapped it around John like a cape. John caught the edges in his hands as they almost slid back over and down his shoulders and snorted.

"Is this your version of a shock blanket?" John asked suddenly.

Sherlock stepped back. "You were cold," he said looking away. "When a person is cold you add extra layers or turn the heat up. And, given your current fixation with avoiding turning the central heating on-"

"Thank you."

Dear lord, he had been rambling. Screwing up his nose at the thought he reached out and tugged on the blanket, trying to get John to go and sit on the sofa. Mercifully taking the hint, John followed and sat, pulling the duvet around him tighter. Unsure and awkward about it, Sherlock paced, dismissing seating options until he was out of ideas and then running back through the list to find the least unsuitable option.

"That could have been me," John whispered.

No, it wouldn't have been. Sherlock kept pacing, narrowing his options down.

"It could be someone I know-" John shook his head "-knew," he corrected himself. "I've done nothing to help them."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and glared at the ceiling. "You barely make ends meet as it is without throwing away all your earnings to charity."

"I have time," John said distantly.

"Yes, give yourself some of it," Sherlock snapped.

On his next pass John was looking down at his hands as he sat bent over himself. "I forget sometimes," John said suddenly.

John had changed position. All seating issues and decisions had to be revisited and revised. "About?"

John threw him a look. "I can fool myself," he clasped his hands together, "Pretend it didn't happen." He stared down at the floorboards. "It hits me sometimes."

Sherlock remained silent.

"Does it do that with you?" John asked looking up.

"No."

"No?"

Sherlock paused at the desk and stared out of the window. "I…I do not pretend."

Wrong thing to say, Sherlock winced at the sound of the words and tried to work out how he had lost the meaning he had wanted to convey. "I…it is impossible to forget."

That didn't sound any better either! The English language was useless at times. French, he could do this so much better in French. Or in-

"Why?" John asked suddenly. "I'd have thought you'd have deleted the entire incident as dull and useless."

Stunned, Sherlock turned, "What?"

"It was an event," John was glaring at nothing now. "It happened; dwelling on it doesn't change a damned thing. That's the logical way of dealing with it; it's certainly the approach you seem to be taking."

"You think I…" Sherlock stared at him in disbelief, and then tipped his head back, huffing out a disbelieving laugh that sounded faintly hysterical to his own ears. Slowly he lowered his head and stared at John who was now shifting, looking lost and alone among the duvet. The sight made him walk away a little, over to the fireplace as he sifted his thoughts over this latest development.

"You think I can just delete what I left you to face?" Sherlock snarled. "That I would view you being so lost and hurt that you had nowhere to turn as a minor inconvenience? That I wouldn't recognise it was my influence that had you in an alleyway with heroin in your blood? That-"

"So what, it's pity?" John leapt on the idea as if he'd been waiting for it. "You think you owe me?"

"I do not pity you," Sherlock hissed.

"Then what? Do you think we can magically go back in time four years?" John demanded, spoiling for a fight. "That somehow you can bury the drug addicted whore and-"

Sherlock turned and grabbed at something, hurling it at the sofa wall, at John's words as if he could wreck that ridiculous claim and physically slay it from John's vocabulary.

There was a silence as the skull, cracked, thudded onto the sofa by John. Staring at it, Sherlock swallowed tightly, shutting hiss eyes and immediately opening them again when a flickered imagining tormented his mind.

"The image is obscene," he confessed tightly, the words pushing out beyond his control, needing somehow for John to make it all right, for John to help. "Every time I see a bruise on you, I see it. I see an utterly unworthy waste of space touching what should have been mine. What I wanted."

John looked startled suddenly, like a deer caught in the headlights; trapped and completely unprepared for what was coming.

Too soon. Far too soon.

Closing his eyes to the sight was the only possible protection he had. The stunned, lost, terrified look that told him opening his mouth to bring up that topic had been a colossal mistake.

What had he been thinking?

Exhausted, Sherlock just walked out of the flat.


	6. Dawn

Thank you very much to both Dinik and NicolettelliW for betaing this chapter

This chapter takes place immediately after the last (usual for this fic I know!)

* * *

When he returned, the flat was silent, but for John's breathing. It was almost dawn and it sounded as if John hadn't moved from the spot he'd been frozen in when Sherlock had flung himself out of the door. And, sure enough, when he walked into the room, John was sitting on the sofa. Sherlock's duvet was still hanging around him as he stared at the skull in his hands.

"Fractured," John said after a moment, his voice sounding dry.

"Could you fix it?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"The skull?" John turned the bone over in his hand, "I imagine so."

Slowly Sherlock closed the door behind him and walked over to his chair, sitting in it heavily and turned slightly away from John as he stared into the kitchen.

"We've never talked about it," John said slowly, "What happened, to me to you," he put the skull on the empty side of the sofa. "Not once, not since I left for the centre."

"No."

The clock ticked on, counting down the seconds until nothing. An endless tick that reminded him this purgatory needed to go on and on until John was ready to end itAt least the duvet would smell of John.

"What are we doing Sherlock?"

"Dancing," Sherlock tilted his head up and took a deep breath before angling to the side to look at John. "Are you ready to stop?"

Eyes that were dark enough to have lost their colour stared back at him in the blue tinged light of just before dawn. John seemed to be searching his face for something before he nodded.

"Yes."

Sherlock nodded and looked back at the kitchen. "How many men?"

"Four." John's voice wavered. "Did you ever do it?"

"No. Mycroft stepped in the one time I considered it." Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on narrow kitchen window. "What prompted the first time?"

John let out a sad sigh, "I…winter. I didn't get into the shelter quick enough, I was…" he let out a long breath as if trying to balance himself, "cold, wet, starving."

Sherlock tried not to clench his hands about the armrests but the image that was conjured; an image of John needing a shoulder to lean on, a coat, food, was ripping at his chest. "Did you intend to wake up from the hit afterwards?" he asked.

"Not your turn to ask a question," John replied, voice almost lost to the emotions screeching through him.

John didn't know the answer. He could have been rotting somewhere while Sherlock played international crime preventer.

It could have been John on the floor yesterday.

What would have happened to his body? Sherlock would never have found him, never have known. By the time he had finally seen, it would have been too late; John would have been buried or burned and Sherlock would have had nothing to clutch at, nothing to wrap around and-

"You didn't know it was me," John said suddenly, cutting Sherlock's thoughts up.

That realisation, the night when he had stood, drowning in joy that John, older, thinner and haunted had returned, had nearly felled him. To know that he had stood in front of John and hadn't seen; that John had spent one more night alone, cold and afraid, ate at him. Over and over he replayed the scene; saw the shock in the shuffling feet, the shame in the avoidance of his gaze.

"You didn't want to see how far I'd sunk," John continued bitterly.

"It was not your-"

"I am not a fucking victim in this!" John suddenly yelled at him. "I chose my mistakes, not you."

Incensed, Sherlock pushed himself out of the chair. "I made you stand in front of a building and talk to me seconds before I jumped," he roared. "I let you find out that I did it for you. I got so caught up in the game of unravelling a network that I didn't take a backwards glance at you. I walked away and you suffered-"

"I took the gamble," John stared at up at him, almost laughing, "I took drugs and drink and did anything for money, anything for a rush. I was fucked up long before I met you Sherlock; you are not the be all and end all of my life – "

"John-"

"-especially as it seems I sure as hell wasn't that for yours."

"You were meant to be happy!" Sherlock snarled furiously. "You were meant to get on with that life you had been trying to grab onto since we met. The women, the job, the friends. I was the anomaly John, you were not meant to – "

"To?" John challenged, looking both wild and terrified at the same time.

"To care for me as I did for you."

Damn it!

Sherlock kicked at something furiously. Why the hell wouldn't the words stay back? Laughing at himself he turned away from John and then shoved everything off the desk for good measure. A silver letter opener remained and he threw it at the wall, hating it when it bounced uselessly off, rather than sinking in and sliding into the wall and making a permanent mark.

Pressing his hands onto the desk he bent over, sucking on breath as he railed at himself inwardly. John was the one who had been hurt, the one in pain and traumatised; Sherlock could not act as if John could be the one to make it better.

But he didn't know how to fix this; he didn't have John's soothing nudging touch, John's ability to say the right thing. Oh, Sherlock was the master at saying the correct answer, but the right words? Not his area.

John shouldn't have to fix this, John shouldn't have to deal with the temper tantrum, the violent nature of Sherlock's mind when events didn't order themselves the way he wanted them.

He was his own worst enemy.

Risking a glance, he looked over at John who was staring down at the skull, tracing the break with his finger. As if reading Sherlock's thoughts John begun "I…I know how to fix this." With a long nervous pause, "I'm not sure, though…" he pulled his fingers away.

"We aren't dancing anymore, John." Sherlock replied frostily. "Say what you mean."

He could see John almost physically draw the strength and courage up, see him pull on army training and the deep rooted calm that he always seemed to have.

"You said…you said, 'should have been,' and, "did'."

What? What did that mean? The expression on his face must have shown his inability to follow the thought process because John steeled himself to explain further. "'Should have been mine'," John expanded slowly, unable to meet his eyes. "'Did care'" he shook himself, "I …do I fix this to make it what it was before or…" he trailed off, his strength seemingly used up just by the half formed question.

Oh!

"_I see an utterly unworthy waste of space touching what should have been mine."_

"_To care for me as I did for you."_

Tenses! Tenses were so important; why had he used past tense? Idiot! Idiot! Of all the things to mess up, to ruin - grammar denoted exact meaning. He had implied to John that he _had_ been interested-

God! He had implied that he had been interested but was no longer. He had been angry about what had happened. Logical conclusion, John's conclusion: what had happened to him had made Sherlock no longer want him.

John was so curled up now he looked so defenceless and vulnerable that Sherlock couldn't move out of fear he'd hurt him in some way.

"Right," John sounded as if he were fighting tears of self-mortification. "Right, yeah, 'course."

"Not what it was," Sherlock said quickly, realising his stunned silence had been taken in completely the wrong way. "If I have the choice still. Not what it was."

John's eyes almost flicked up to him, but they didn't quite make it there and Sherlock could see John trying to turn the words over in his head.

"I…" If John could say it, then so could he. "I want more," Sherlock breathed quietly. "I always wanted more."

Panic shot John's head up, "I'm not, I can't-"

"I know," Sherlock cleared his throat, "It is far too soon to be having this conversation. I should have…" trailing off, he winced at the lack of words to describe what he should have done. "You know…" he took a deep cleansing breath, filling his lungs to help with rhythm, of speech and annunciation, "Expressing sentiment is not an attribute I am very well adapted to. I deduce, I pull things apart; I do not mend," the words sounded empty to him. "I am trying," he finished uselessly. "I simply…"

"Sherlock," John pleaded.

"I am not patient," Sherlock jammed his hands in his pockets, "I am not sweet, I do not listen. I am not demonstrative, but…but I want to be. For you." He closed his eyes, "because you are worth that. You deserve that and I am too fucking selfish to let you get it elsewhere."

There was a long silence.

Well, he was committed now!

"I can wait," he said firmly. "For this, for you, I can wait. I do not promise to be especially gracious when waiting, but I will. And when you are ready I….I will show you just how much I would have…will treasure what you freely offer."

The floorboards creaked.

John had stood up.

Turning to him and keeping his hands safely in his pockets and away from temptation, Sherlock backed away slightly from John, unsure if the ex-army doctor had noticed how close they were.

John had clearly been aware as he stepped forward a little further, eyes meeting Sherlock's for some sort of permission.

As if he needed to ask.

And then John just leaned his head forward, resting it on Sherlock's chest, taking in long deep breaths. Hesitantly Sherlock reached out with one arm, but paused when John shook his head. The arm was returned to Sherlock's side and his hand gripped the edge of the desk.

It was impossible to tell what John was doing; drawing in strength or letting go for once. Sherlock stood, letting John just breathe into his chest. Unsure, he dipped his head a little, tilting his chin to avoid jabbing John with it and pressed his lips into John's hair, breathing in his smell.

Slowly, his shoulders relaxed and some of the tension eased as they just stood with each other while light crept through the window.


	7. Is this fine?

Chapter Summary: Sherlock may have forgotten to do something...

* * *

Things had been … different since that talk. Odd. They had no clear boundaries because John's opinion on the matter fluctuated far too much for there to be any real rules involved. There were times when John clearly wanted to be on his own and then almost exactly the same circumstances when John would stubbornly stay by Sherlock's side, within gazing distance at all times. Other times, the times Sherlock hated most, John would get a certain look in his eyes, his shoulders would stiffen to a certain degree and Sherlock knew that whatever was going on in John's head, he didn't want to be a burden.

The only silver lining in their interactions was that Sherlock was able to solve two cases alone just by looking at the body language of those involved. After John, everyone was like an open book.

In what Sherlock assumed was some form of apology, Lestrade now texted when a case was suitable for John. After the responses from last time, it was a wonder that the detectives present hadn't worked out what had happened to John. Anderson certainly hadn't, but Donovan had eased off a lot recently. She would look frustrated with both Lestrade and Sherlock when John appeared at a case, but she had lessened the insults.

"Case?" John asked as he placed a cup of tea next to where Sherlock was thinking on the sofa.

Sherlock didn't respond, reluctant to lie. "Too hot," he said without looking at the tea.

"Hot tea on a winter evening," John smiled. "It should be a law."

Winter. That was another problem. John refused hand-outs or presents and on his current wage he had a rather thin coat and some thermal gloves from one of the markets. But Sherlock wanted to bundle him up in layers, pile him with jumpers and scarves. Clothe him with thick socks and watertight boots. It was an absurd notion, but one he couldn't seem to stop. The same was true with John's eating habits; for a long time afterwards he had been forced to eat plain food, nothing that would upset his stomach. But, as the months had drawn on, John had been allowed to eat a few more luxuries. Not that he did. Sherlock had been given some chocolate from a grateful client two weeks ago and had dismissively given the pack to John who nibbled his way through it like there would never be any more Green and Black's chocolate ever made. Sherlock had to dig his fingers into the sofa arm to stop himself from running down to the corner shop, buying as many as he could see and stocking them in John's room just to make the man eat one of the tiny bars in one sitting.

The television went to the adverts for whatever film they had been watching and Sherlock shook himself slightly, utterly unaware of what they were watching or how long he had been lost in his head. The cup next to him was now far too cold but he picked it up anyway.

"John-"

The lights, the television, everything all went dark.

That didn't usually happen. Usually, when this happened, Sherlock was in the kitchen or in his room, staring at the plug that had caused the fuse to blow and rolling his eyes as John screeched down at him, checking to see if he was a) alive and b) already on his way to the fuse box.

What had he been doing earlier? A delayed reaction?

John had stood up and was peering out the window. Sherlock watched him in the light from the streetlight and saw him drop the net curtains back down.

"Sherlock," John said, sounding as if he were trying to stay polite. "When I asked you to post a letter three weeks ago, did you do it?"

Post a letter?

It didn't sound likely.

"Possibly not."

"Sherlock," John took another deep breath, "Where is the post from the last few weeks?"

Post…ah, there had been a lot of it in the door when he'd walked through two weeks ago; he'd simply kicked it outside. There had been a fascinating kidnapping and the night before that, John had sat on the sofa next to him, their arms brushing as he asked questions and had looked happy. He hadn't had time to deal with the post.

"Great," John scrubbed a hand over his face.

Why on earth John wanted to bang on about the uselessness of the postal service, Sherlock had no idea. Unless…

"But we have the money," he said, a little confused. "In the account: the bill's account. We always pay from that account. They should just take it. It's there."

"Doesn't work like that," John slumped into the sofa, rubbing at his forehead.

"But it's there!" Sherlock looked around. "We always pay the bills on time."

In the faded light he could see John look up at him pointedly.

"We pay the bills," Sherlock muttered drawing his feet up to his chest, "I pay half and you pay half." You insist on paying half, Sherlock thought mutinously. "Therefore, we pay the bills."

"There is a physical act involved," John replied, mind clearly elsewhere, "The act of paying. Have you even ever seen a statement before?"

"I work with the police." What on earth did statements have to do with anything?

John sniggered a little, "Not witness statements you…bill statements! They state how much you have to pay."

"But it's there."

John threw up his hands, "Fine. Fine. Either way it doesn't matter. I will phone them up tomorrow and explain. And pay," he said with some emphasis on the last word.

"It's-"

"There, yes I know," John sighed. "Do you know where the torches are?"

Sherlock dug into his pocket and turned on his slim one that he used on crime scenes, flashing it over at John who winced from the light.

"Any others?" John asked holding up his hand to shield his face as Sherlock aimed it down at him, a sweeping check to make sure he was okay before setting the torch so the light rested on the table.

"No," Sherlock said simply. "You have one."

"No I don't," John's tone had turned frosty.

Ah. Yes. John had lost everything. Stupid. Why would he have bought a torch recently?

John remained silent for a moment before pushing out of the chair. "I'll see if Mrs Hudson has any candles,"

Sherlock switched off the torch and reached for his violin to play.

* * *

John had lit a few candles before going to bed, a strange look on his face. Sherlock hated those looks.

It was getting cold. Very cold.

Annoyed, Sherlock stopped playing and stuck a hand on the radiator.

It was cold.

What was happening? First the electricity, then the radiator…

Radiators ran on water…had he not explained to the water company as well that he had the money and they should take it? Insufferable people-

It was cold.

Suddenly, Sherlock panicked.

Racing into his room he gathered up his duvet and stormed up the stairs, opening John's door without a knock or a pause or any lack of noise.

John sat up like a shot, "Sherlock?" he asked, relaxing fractionally. "What are you-"

Sherlock dumped his duvet on top of John's

They both stared down at the sight and John slowly raised his eyes and sighed. "Sherlock-"

His coat.

Turning on his heel, Sherlock raced back down the stairs. There was a blanket in the top of the wardrobe, his coat, and a throw that Molly had bought for him at some point. Gathering all of them up, Sherlock ran back up the stairs.

John was still sitting up in bed, fingers tracing Sherlock's duvet. Satisfied that he'd found the correct items in the house, Sherlock dumped his pile on the bed, studying the bed as he worked out the best way to wrap John up in it all.

"You should put the coat on like a dressing gown-"

Dressing gown. Idiot.

Sherlock turned.

"Enough."

The word, the command rang through the room in a tone that Sherlock hadn't heard from John in ages. In years. Utterly calm and completely in control, focussed and definitive.

"I need to get the dressing gowns," Sherlock explained in the doorway.

"I'm not cold."

No, not yet, but it was only one thirty in the morning and likely to get colder. "No," Sherlock said firmly.

"No?" John queried, "What do you mean 'no'?"

"You are cold, you will get colder and I will not stop taking measures to stop that."

"Sherlock-"

"The radiators have gone off, too," Sherlock tried to explain.

John shifted and there was a touch of amusement in his voice when he spoke, "It's the gas and electricity bill, Sherlock. We use the same company for both."

Gas…ah, boiler. They had a gas boiler, he knew that. Mrs Hudson had yelled it at him enough times when he started fires.

"Regardless," Sherlock continued on. "There is a lack of heating ability."

John reached over and sifted through the pile on his feet quickly, "Sherlock…what about you?" he asked, sounding weary now.

"Transport," Sherlock dismissed. "Now, put the coat on and I will retrieve the dressing gowns."

"Sherlock-"

"I do not want you cold," Sherlock raised his voice far more than was necessary, "Ever."

John made a move and then seemed to think better of it, letting out a frustrated breath.

"You are not allowed to be cold," Sherlock stared at the carpet.

The bed rustled as John moved, lying down and Sherlock watched, wondering whether this was permission to continue or a dismissal.

Then John lifted the covers. "Body heat," he explained as the hand on the duvet shook a little.

Of course! John was brilliant!

Sherlock nodded and grabbed at his duvet, lifting it up and over so it covered John's and then doing the same with the blanket. He slid in after, toeing off his shoes and blinking at the warmth that flooded through him.

Next to him John shifted, on his side, with a gap between them.

He was in bed with John.

Ah.

That was an … unexpected turn of events. Turning on his side to look at John, Sherlock frowned.

"I…I am not sure how this happened," he confessed, watching John closely.

John smiled faintly. "I know," he said, head on his elbow.

"Are you-" Sherlock struggled for a good word, "-fine with this?

A small chuckled resounded from John and Sherlock found himself smiling in reply.

"Just this," John said, "this is nice actually."

His nose was red.

Sherlock twisted, grabbed the blanket and pulled it so that it was over their heads like a tent, sliding the fabric over the headboard and down, attaching it to the post before ducking back underneath it. He turned back to John, flicking his torch on so there was some light.

John was staring up at the blankets and then, watching Sherlock, turned back to him again.

"Why this fascination with keeping me warm?" John asked as Sherlock arranged himself to be comfortable.

"Because I can," Sherlock replied carefully.

They lay in silence and, when it appeared they wouldn't be talking anymore, Sherlock turned off the torch with some disappointment.

Surprisingly, he was still waiting for John to fall asleep when he drifted off.


	8. Dangerous Ground

Dangerous Ground

Chapter Summary: Sherlock crashes in John's bed after a case. Because it's closer...

* * *

Five days the case had gone on for. Five long days.

Shattered, Sherlock collapsed into the bed; limbs sprawled across the covers, not bothering to get underneath.

"Er… Sherlock?"

"Go to sleep," Sherlock ordered, voice muffled against the pillow.

Unfortunately the light went on instead. In protest, Sherlock scrunched his eyes shut and simply tried to bury himself in the pillow.

"What are you doing?" John asked sounding a little panicked.

"Obvious," Sherlock frowned as he failed to create a proper sentence, "Even to you."

There was an irritated noise next to him. "Why are you in my bed?"

"Closer."

"How?" The bed's movements indicated that John was sitting up now. "Your room is downstairs."

"Checking." All he wanted to do was sleep. "Your bed is closest to you."

There was a very long sigh and anything else John might have said was lost when Sherlock finally fell asleep.

* * *

When Sherlock opened his eyes again (far more coherent this time) John was fully dressed and staring at him with exasperation.

"Awake?" John asked, folding his arms.

Sherlock flickered his eyes over John and then closed them again. "Why are you dressed?" he asked, disliking the uniform that completely washed John out.

"You've been asleep for fourteen hours," John replied, sounding none too pleased about it. "For heaven's sake Sherlock, did you sleep at all during the case?"

"Of course," Sherlock stretched lazily, enjoying the smell of John all around him.

"For longer than an hour at a time?"

"Why would I do that?" Sherlock frowned at John. "I slept when I had nothing else to do."

Clearly that answer did not impress John who muttered something under his breath as he wandered over to the wardrobe then froze.

Interesting.

Sherlock watched John patiently, watching his cheeks flush then wane.

Possibly not a good kind of interesting.

"So," John shifted looking uncomfortable. "Have you finished using my bed?"

Sherlock sat up a little, looking about himself. "I have used your bed before while you have been in it," he reminded John.

The slight frown between John's eyes indicated that John was just as confused by his own reaction. The irritating shrug reared its head as John avoided eye contact.

Sherlock waited. He was almost getting good at it now.

"You check on me?" John asked suddenly, looking up, chin level and eyes meeting Sherlock's.

"Yes."

Of course.

"Why?"

The tone was one that denoted there was a lingering danger in this conversation. To be too emphatic about his worry would simply mean John would take offense at the implication he was weak, while to shrug it off would cause John to shut down, thinking he wasn't wanted.

A landmine of conversation awaited him.

"To reassure myself," Sherlock said, sitting up fully. "That you're here. I disliked it when you weren't."

There. Crisis averted. An even middle ground that John couldn't find anything to pick at.

But John snorted. "Do you see me wandering into your room to check on you?" he asked with rather uncharacteristic venom. "After all, you left me remember?"

It was like a wall of ice had settled under his skin, blocking his reactions with some awful strange pain that he wasn't sure how best to cope with.

_Lack of self-confidence, trust issues. Sexual abuse, deep seated shame. Doubting abilities, withdrawal symptoms. All of these usually manifested in a number of ways such as anger. Lashing out. Picking fights._

Was he meant to respond normally? Ignore John? Both seemed wrong in their own way.

"You didn't seem to find an issue with the circumstances a few weeks ago," Sherlock pointed out carefully.

"Well I didn't know you'd been checking in on me," John muttered bitterly.

"Yet you raised your objection to my being in your bed before you discovered that."

John blinked in confusion, opening his mouth only to close it seconds later, looking lost.

Sherlock studied his feet thoughtfully, not really seeing them. "I intend to be physically intimate with you one day," he said suddenly.

In the corner of his vision, John stared at him as if he'd gone mad.

"So…whatever issue it is I suppose we had best deal with it now." Sherlock dragged his eyes from his bare feet to look at John. "Was it that I didn't ask permission? That you hadn't invited me?"

John gaped.

"Should we have all encounters in my bed?"

"What the hell…why would that be any different?" John asked.

"You then have somewhere to escape to," Sherlock pulled his knees to his chest, resting his chin on them. "A place of retreat?"

The idea clearly appealed to John but that didn't seem to be his issue.

Okay then. Sherlock titled his head to the side, studying everything available to him while John stared beseechingly at the ceiling.

"Purpose," Sherlock decided suddenly.

John suddenly became so tense Sherlock worried he might snap a muscle.

"John-"

But John had turned and was out the door in a flash. A moment later his feet clattered down the stairs and then the front door slammed shut.

There had been a purpose to Sherlock being in the bed last time; body heat. A biological imperative; they had both needed to be warmed up.

John couldn't fathom why Sherlock would voluntarily place himself in the same bed as John without such a purpose. Or rather he couldn't seem to believe it.

Dangerous ground indeed.

* * *

The following day, when Sherlock returned after battling an escape from the paper work Lestrade threatened, the flat was a mess. An arena of glass and china that cracked under his feet as Sherlock approached John carefully. The man was sitting on his chair, head tilted back as if he were listening to calming music or peaceful birds. His forearms were stretched along the arms of the chair and shoulders flat in a deliberate attempt to calm himself.

"I take it your session with the therapist went well?" Sherlock queried lightly as he sunk into his own chair opposite John.

"Exceedingly," John drawled in a passable imitation of Sherlock himself, his eyes remaining shut and head still tilted back.

"And what advice prompted this?" Sherlock asked, eyes scanning the debris.

"She thinks I'm being too hard on myself," John replied lightly.

"Thank goodness you proved her wrong," Sherlock spotted an object and hissed in annoyance. "You threw the snow-globe form Toronto."

Startled, John opened his eyes and turned his head to the spot Sherlock was glaring at. For a long moment the pair stared at the ruined decorative piece. Every so often Sherlock could feel John looking at him carefully.

"You know if I were you I would be demanding tea by now," John said after a pause.

"And if I were you I would be grousing about the mess," Sherlock replied. "We seem to have a conundrum."

Nodding in agreement, John rubbed at his forehead.

"Was it about our discussion yesterday? Your session?"

A stony silence met his question.

"Fine," Sherlock leaned back against the desk. "Then will you tell me why you cannot seem to believe that I would wish to sleep in the same bed as you for no other reason than I wanted to?"

John scrubbed a hand across his eyes. "You shouldn't," he said quietly.

This was new.

"Shouldn't?" Wasn't John aware that was a goading word in Sherlock's vocabulary, right next to 'don't' and 'mustn't'?

John nodded.

"I shouldn't…want to?"

"No," John agreed.

"Why?" Into that one word he managed to just about pour his frustration, sadness and fury for John to hear.

But John just shook his head. "You know why," he said so softly that Sherlock barely heard him.

"Say it."

John stared fixedly at the chair opposite him then closed his eyes. "You…deserve better."

That had not been what he had expected to hear. As such Sherlock felt his jaw drop slightly.

"You…you're still young," John's hands flexed around the arm-rest. "Brilliant, stunning. You don't want-"

"Do not presume to tell me what I do and do not want," Sherlock snarled.

"I'm not. I'm telling you what you should and shouldn't want," John's voice wavered a little as he spoke. "There's no great puzzle here Sherlock. No mystery. I…I fucked up royally and I'm paying for it. I am not who I was and I am…" John swallowed back whatever he had been about to say. "I have nothing to give to you. Not anymore."

A thousand different emotions tugged at Sherlock: the urge to gather John in and never let go; the need to scream at him; to shout and rage until John understood how Sherlock felt. There was the desperate desire to hunt down every single person in the city who had caused John's pain, to flog the therapist and wrench Moran's head from his neck.

For a long minute Sherlock didn't trust himself to move or speak.

What could he say? A quip about how one could hardly package bits and pieces of themselves off in the mail? A fierce defence of John's character? A desperate plea to listen? Apologies?

"No."

John looked up. "What?" he asked wearily.

Sherlock pushed himself off the desk and stopped in front of John, bending down suddenly and trapping John in the chair by placing his arms on the armrests, half expecting a struggle.

But John, wonderful surprising John just glanced at the arms caging him in and let out a long huff of pure irritation.

"You aren't afraid of me," Sherlock declared, amazed and utterly losing his intended direction.

"Of course not, you'd snap like a twig in a good wind," John muttered and then seemed to shake himself. "Sherlock, leave it alone."

"You're afraid of yourself," Sherlock breathed, delighted suddenly.

"Did you hear what I said earlier?"

"Oh, some nonsense about getting old and having a mid-life crisis."

John's mouth opened and closed like a particularly bothered goldfish. "I am not-" he leaned back as far as he could in the chair, "I am a drug addict."

"As am I."

"I sold myself-

"Transport."

Now John was starting to look annoyed. "I am not having a fight where you win through semantics!"

"You aren't afraid of me," Sherlock couldn't get over it. "All this time I thought it was that."

"Sherlock! Are you even paying attention now?"

"Yes, I finally am."

John's eyes flickered over Sherlock's face as if a sudden code would appear to clue him in on what was happening. "Right…" he said hesitantly.

Sherlock nudged gently at John's nose with his own, tipping John's head slightly to a better position, a hair's breadth from John's lips.

"Does this scare you?" he breathed quietly, waiting.

It seemed to take a millennia before John finally answered, leaning forward that extra millimetre until, at last, they kissed.

It was slow. Sweetly slow and careful; both of them unsure and desperate to not break the fragile attempt. Sherlock kept his hands gripping the chair and John seemed just as desperate to do the same.

John pulled back, eyes wide and lost.

"I want you," Sherlock said, his voice sounding so loud. "I need you and I love you. I have no delusions that I deserve you though."

John plucked at Sherlock's shirt, jaw clenched and eyes bright. "I…" the next word caught in his throat. "I can't…kissing's fine, I can't-"

Sherlock shifted in his crouch, the broken glass he'd half forgotten about crunching under his shoes. "I can wait," he said softly.

"Why?" John dropped the hold on Sherlock's shirt.

"Would you wait for me?"

John nodded instantly, and then smiled a little. Sherlock allowed himself a small smile back and stood, suddenly self-conscious and lost as to what he should do next.

John looked down at the mess on the floor again.

"I clear up your attempts to wreck the flat," John said, his voice not quite back to normal.

"That's your idiotic decision," Sherlock declared, stalking off into the kitchen, trying not to let the triumph sink into his voice.


	9. Look and see the footprints

Author's Note: Thank you to NicolettelliW for betaing this chapter :)

* * *

Look and see the footprints

Kissing John was fascinating.

Even better was being kissed by John.

There were sweet brushes placed by Sherlock's hairline as John wandered past his chair or left for work. Absent presses of lips to skin as John studied something in a book or on the television. Freely given, easily given, manifestations of affection that Sherlock soaked up eagerly after the long drought of barely being able to touch John.

Then there were the kisses to shut Sherlock up. John had stumbled upon it one day when Sherlock had been ranting at his phone about DI Patterson's incompetence. The moment when John had first tapped him on the shoulder and pressed a kiss to his lips, all of Sherlock's previous irritation flew out of his head.

There were the rarer, longer, almost shy kisses that made Sherlock want to fold up around John and never let him go. However he knew John wouldn't appreciate that sentiment, would frown at the implication that he needed protecting, and wouldn't react well. Those kisses were precious due to their rarity and also had to be carried out with a precision that could leave Sherlock feeling equally pleased and frustrated.

Kissing, it seemed, had not been an issue when John had been on the streets and therefore had very little occasion to cause John to stiffen in remembrance. And yet touching him while kissing was a different matter altogether.

Sherlock was allowed to stroke the back of John's hands, careful soothing rubs with his fingers or thumb, but could not stray anywhere close to his wrists-

_Restrained? Pulled upon? Dealer grabbing John's hands to press them into other places?_

-Running his hands down John's back was allowed; he could even push the palm of his hands along John's spine which would often make John groan into his mouth in pleasure-

_Massage, must offer massage. Must work out how to conduct massage without pinning him down…acquire a masseuse table?_

-But he had to keep his hands centred in John's back. Any attempt to rise to the shoulder blades or to the sides was met with a slowing of tongue and John almost vibrated under his hands as if waiting to see what Sherlock would do next.

-_John used cues from the dealers, looked for what was going to happen next. To please them? To ensure the experience finished as quickly as possibl__e? To ensure some measure of control in the situation? Last seems most important/likely. No spontaneity then until he asks for it. Always broadcast intentions._

Frustratingly, touches to John's jaw and hair were utterly off limits. Even a brush to John's neck had provoked a violent wrenching away that made Sherlock clench his fists and look to the side to allow John the chance and privacy to recollect himself. John had looked mortified at his reaction and, in typical John fashion, had gone to fiddle with the kettle for the next twenty minutes.

Sherlock hadn't even attempted below the waist.

* * *

"Are you going to bed?" John asked as Sherlock lay on the sofa.

"Case," Sherlock replied idly, staring at the ceiling, mind lost on the task at hand.

"Staring at the ceiling doesn't make lab results come back any faster," John closed up the book he was reading.

"Thinking."

There was a long sigh that told Sherlock just how much John was enjoying the monosyllabic conversation.

Then silence.

After ten minutes Sherlock turned his head to John, who was staring into space, book still closed.

"John?"

Shaking himself, John turned back to Sherlock. "I…" he breathed out, fingers tracing the lettering of the author on the book cover. "Could you think in bed?"

"Comfortable," Sherlock stared back up at the ceiling.

"With me," John said, sounding torn between amusement and nerves.

Yes.

Sherlock swung himself up instantly, meeting John's amused smile and worried eyes.

"Five minutes," he said to John, wandering into his room to get into bed wear.

* * *

It was only as Sherlock came back down from the bathroom that he paused in the doorway, a thought suddenly hitting him.

John, standing by the bed, eyes miles away looked over suddenly, a questioning look in his eye.

"This is…irritatingly impressive," Sherlock muttered, stomping in. "I do not go to bed during a case."

There wasn't an ounce of confusion in John's face, just a twist of an amused grin and an almost gleeful shrug. "I'm not forcing you," he said pointedly.

And perhaps there was a slight question in there.

"Which is why it is irritating," Sherlock replied loftily, climbing under the covers. Seconds later, John did the same.

They lay on their sides, watching each other carefully, a wall of white bed sheet between them. John opened his mouth and then seemed to think better about what he was going to say, rolling onto his back with a strange expression on his face.

"Tell me?"

"You have a case," John replied in a monotonous tone.

"It's barely a five," Sherlock said dismissively, resisting the urge to reach out.

John smiled faintly.

Studying him, Sherlock pressed forward a little, shimmying down the bed until his head was level with John's shoulder. Almost automatically, John lifted his arm and Sherlock ducked underneath. It was an odd position, not one he was used to at all usually being the taller person in any encounter. But the position relaxed John, even to the point where Sherlock could lay a palm on his stomach and John covered it with his hand, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's hair.

Odd, even a little uncomfortable, but completely worth it.

John's spare hand came out to stroke gently through Sherlock's hair. The moment the caress started, John suddenly stiffened and dropped his hand to the mattress.

"Tell me."

John breathed, in and out. In and out. A calming repetition as Sherlock measured the expansion caused by inhalation carefully. There were a few times when it sounded from his breath as if John would say something, but the words were lost between mind and mouth.

"The-" John seemed stunned he'd actually made a word. The amazement muted him for thirty seconds and Sherlock waited, trying to be patient.

"The first…one." John swallowed. "He…he was a wanker but…it was…an exchange." John shifted and Sherlock let him move, careful to move with him. "Just…the act."

As if John had been some blow up doll. Sherlock stared at their joined hands on John's stomach, clenching his jaw shut.

"He um…he got into some trouble. Disappeared." John let out a bitter sound, "Dead probably."

Good.

"But…" A deep breath in this time, John was trying to steady himself, "Once you've crossed that line there didn't seem much point in being precious about it. The next time I was short and desperate I went to…you always knew names and prices they wanted. He was…" John trailed off and under his hand Sherlock could feel the fine tremors.

"John-"

"Humiliating." John almost gasped the word out as if he needed to expel it. "He…it…he enjoyed it."

There was nothing Sherlock could say. Part of him wanted to engulf John entirely, keep him safe and hidden, away from cruel words and harsh laughter. The other part wanted to shake a name out of John, grab a sharp implement and hunt.

Neither was a realistic option.

John seemed to have finished. Insanely Sherlock wanted to hear it all, to not fear that at odd moments of lying together John might suddenly say something that would make Sherlock lose his footing, flail around lost and hopeless.

"I can't touch your chin, hair, wrists or neck," he said into the silence, a little more petulantly than perhaps he should have sounded.

"No," John agreed, clearing his throat.

"Or your sides and shoulders without you tensing."

Against his head, John nodded.

"Or surprise you."

"You always surprise me," John murmured softly. "But," he continued when Sherlock pulled back and away to look at him, "No. No sudden touches."

Would it be wrong to ask how he was meant to proceed then? Undecided Sherlock drew further back, scanning John, hoping to find the answer in his body language.

"May I…" Sherlock sat up properly, "Suggest some ideas?"

The smile John gave him was one of fond indulgence, "Ideas?"

"You could restrain me," Sherlock suggested offhandedly, though the idea of being unable to touch John seemed unpleasant and the idea of such a lack of control in the circumstances seemed disagreeable.

John shook his head the moment the words left Sherlock's lips.

"If you are worried I would free myself-"

"No," John said firmly.

"I could perform fellatio on you."

Bemusement and fear warred on Johns face, "Fellatio?" he queried, "I haven't heard that word in years."

"Is that a no?" Sherlock asked.

"No fellatio," John said shifting a bit to sit up.

Why?

But John didn't look as if he wanted to dwell on the subject.

"No talking?" Sherlock asked. "If…if there was humiliation involved I assume no talking would be prudent-"

"Talk," John said quickly. "Your voice is different and I can't really picture you doing dirty talk."

Sherlock looked away.

"Really?" John seemed surprised. "You…do that?"

"I deduce," A little put out, Sherlock wrapped his arms around his knees. "You know what I do when I deduce."

John stared at him.

"What?" Sherlock snapped a little defensive.

"I…" John looked slightly amazed, "I really want to experience that one day."

Really? A smile tugged at his lips, pleased at the flush on John's cheeks.

"But not now?"

"A few steps down the line maybe," John nodded. "As long as you could put up with me muttering amazing every five seconds."

"I could cope," Sherlock said imperiously.

John grinned, looking a little more relaxed.

But how to progress?

Then Sherlock froze.

They were in bed. John had suggested this and they were in bed together, talking about sex and John's experiences for the first time.

"Sherlock?"

He allowed himself a smile.

"Would you like to hear about my time in Florence?" Sherlock asked, turning back and lying down facing John. "I ended up in the cells for a night and beat the guard at chess."

John grinned and nodded, lying down to face him as Sherlock begun.

* * *

Author's Note:

Not any relation to this fic but Nest Among the Stars's next chapter has now been written but it's utter shite so it's being improved and made...better. But it is getting closer to being up. Lots of conversations - Lestrade gets a chance to shine!

Also Back in the Day's epilogue chapter is now up should anyone want to have a read and the sequel will be up on Sunday.


	10. Relapse

Relapse

When John is fired from work, Lestrade takes Sherlock to him.

* * *

Author's Note: Two things: One, I have gone back over this and 'No way Back' and haved edited the chapters. They aren't perfect but they are better than what they were. Two, given how much I have to update, once again this is at the bottom of the pile. It comes when it comes!

Thank you to NicolettelliW for editing and to lutz for letting me bounce a few ideas around.

* * *

For the fourth time in as many minutes, Sherlock pressed the end call button. It didn't usually take Mycroft this long to take the hint. Especially as Sherlock hadn't seen the man since he'd offered to send a car to pick John up from the clinic all those months ago, once John had 'recovered'.

Sherlock had refused the offer. Who knew where Mycroft would have deposited John on the way home.

No sooner had he ended the call than Mycroft tried again.

It was getting insufferable, Sherlock thought petulantly as Lestrade returned from speaking to the witnesses because Sherlock had been banned from doing so. It was hardly his fault the sister was utterly useless.

Then, as soon as he cancelled the call again, Lestrade's phone rang.

"Do not answer that," Sherlock snapped, pointing furiously at the mobile. "He's just trying to irritate-"

Lestrade threw Sherlock a look akin to one you give a tantruming five year old and answered his phone.

Traitor!

And Lestrade, having barely said a word other than to acknowledge the call, paled and his eyes sought out Sherlock's.

No.

Heart suddenly in his throat, Sherlock gestured to the phone and Lestrade swallowed. "He wants to talk to you," he said to Mycroft and then obediently, without any stipulations, handed over his phone to Sherlock.

"What happened?" Sherlock demanded.

"John was fired. Too many missed shifts." Mycroft sounded as if he were trying not to be accusing.

"Do you have him?" Sherlock growled, turning and walking towards the road.

"He's at St Thomas'."

Hospital. Out of their way. Not close to John's work.

Two options.

"What was he admitted for?" Sherlock breathed.

"He's used Heroin."

"Right," suddenly he felt utterly stupid. "I need to give Lestrade back his phone."

Mycroft sighed on the other end of the line. "I'll meet you there."

"Why? Worried I'll ask to share his score?" Sherlock hissed. "I have no wish to hear your self-righteous, indulgent lectures."

He hung up furiously, half hoping that the speed and ferocity would give Mycroft an ear ache.

What now? He had to go to John. Transport was needed. But there were no taxis passing. He needed to call one.

He stared at the phone in his hands. Lestrade was on the cusp of seeing someone new, was deleting his messages scrupulously.

Then a gentle hand touched his elbow and steered him towards Lestrade's car as the man himself plucked the phone from Sherlock's hand.

"Seeing someone new?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Thinking about it," Lestrade replied. "St Thomas', yeah?"

* * *

"I was relieved," Sherlock muttered staring out the window as Lestrade drove. "The other option was an attempted suicide."

Lestrade was silent.

"That means he wanted comfort, felt himself slipping back. It doesn't mean he wanted to leave m-" Sherlock pressed his lips together and sniffed in a breath, trying to sound dismissive of the idea.

"He's been too good," Lestrade said suddenly, flicking on the indicator. "He was bound to crash eventually."

"It is possible to give up a drug addiction." Boring, but possible.

Lestrade said nothing.

"Say it," Sherlock hissed. "Whatever wisdom it is you wish to impart, say it, and get it over with."

"I've seen this before," Lestrade said after a moment. "People who just let things build and build until they have…until they feel they have no other option. It's a state of mind, a comfort blanket." He pulled on the handbrake as they hit heavy traffic and shifted. "When John feels useless he wants to escape that feeling, any way he can."

"He isn't," Sherlock gritted out.

"He'll feel it now. No job, pulling on you-"

"He does not pull on me," Sherlock hissed.

"You two used to snipe at each other like an old married couple. I've never seen anyone handle you the way John used to."

"Does," Sherlock corrected. "We still do it."

Lestrade didn't look convinced, "John isn't a push over but he'll try to avoid attracting attention in public now. I've seen him storm onto a crime scene, yank you up and lecture you as to why touching rotting flesh with a cut hand isn't a good idea and then nod and leave. But now…does he ever start the tiffs or is does he just defend himself?"

Defend himself? Sherlock glared at Lestrade.

"Poor choice of words," Lestrade muttered, easing the car forward a little. "I meant…I didn't mean you attack him, I just meant he doesn't go at you the way he used to. He holds back."

"Of course he holds back," Sherlock hissed. "He's an intensely private man who has had the worst aspects of his life highlighted for us all to see."

"And that's what he needs to get over. Seeing it as a dirty secret he might one day be able to hide properly. And if you're hiding something it makes it impossible to start to just forget."

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously. "You do this," he said flapping a hand at the man, "relatively well."

"Years of practise from calming traumatised victims." Lestrade's mouth twitched, "You give me a steady supply after you've finished 'investigating'."

Sherlock snorted and then frowned, staring intently at the traffic in front of them.

"You can ask you know," Lestrade said, sounding amused.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "In the interest of gathering as much data as possible for this situation-"

Lestrade looked as if he were swallowing back a smile.

Fine. "What would you suggest I do?"

It seemed for a horrible moment that Lestrade was about to crow over Sherlock asking for advice. But, as the last second, he seemed to swallow it back. "Honestly?"

"Did I need to add that condition?" Sherlock snapped.

"You need to get him to the state where he'd reach for the drug and instead get him to reach for you."

"Isn't that fostering co-dependency?" Sherlock asked frowning.

"It's what most human beings do," Lestrade said with a shrug. "I swear, I am this close to putting the siren on."

"Too late, nowhere to go," Sherlock muttered, his mind flittering between ideas. "He won't like it."

"You're better for him than heroin."

"What wonderfully high praise," Sherlock closed his eyes, settling back in the seat. "So I should push?"

Lestrade let out a long sigh as they edged forward a little more. "I dunno. I just think John' starting to fool himself into thinking he can hide it away, that he can run from it."

"He talked about it," Sherlock confessed. "A little. About the…" he tightened his jaw, "…the dealers."

"I might be wrong then."

"No…it was limited. Minimal emotion was used." Sherlock considered the talk again. "He's been awkward with me since."

"You know him best," Lestrade peered around and looked through the window. "Tube's not far. Probably could catch the district line."

It was pointless going until he knew what he needed to do with John. "You know him as well," Sherlock insisted. "Do you have any theories?"

"Have you told him how you feel about it all?"

"Yes."

"With minimal emotion?"

"You are aware you are talking to me?" Sherlock asked, hating how much the car trapped his movements. "I do not…I am not verbose about such things."

Lestrade looked at him steadily. "Neither is John. Either you push at him or you pull him with you."

Sherlock tapped his fingers and then frowned up at the sky as he unbuckled his belt. "You can be so unhelpful at times," he muttered as he flung the door open.

"You're welcome," Lestrade said sounding slightly peeved.

Sherlock paused and then turned, leaning back into the car. "Murder was caused by someone switching the deodorant for an airborne toxin. The sister will have noticed the change of canister. Question her again and tell her to stop being an idiot. She'll be able to narrow down the time and day which will lead you to the killer."

Lestrade took out his hands free. "Go away and try to avoid the words 'evidence', 'data' and "dislike'."

"What's wrong with dislike?"

"Do you 'dislike' what happened to John?"

"Yes."

Lestrade shook his head, "I 'dislike' traffic. Think of a better word when you're battling rush hour in the tube."

Sherlock leaned his head against the metal of the car roof then ducked his head down again. "There isn't a word to describe how I feel about what happened to him. Nothing comes close."

Lestrade blinked and looked suddenly uncomfortable, "Yeah. Go with that. And then try to explain it anyway."

Sherlock nodded and shut the door.


	11. What defines you

What Defines You

Chapter Summary: Sherlock and John talk at the hopital.

Thank you so much to anyone still reading this and sorry I've been such a crap person at replying to reviews atm. Easter holidays is coming up which will make things a lot easier. :)

* * *

Sherlock paced the door.

Beyond it was John, in a private room funded by Mycroft (insufferable busy-body) and everything that Sherlock wasn't sure what to do with.

John had been fired from his job at the local shop. He would have taken that hard; a sign that he could no longer even manage that degree of normalcy. He paid all the bills, refused in anyway shape or form to be a burden to Sherlock, refused charity and all offers of help; to him, to fail to achieve even these things would be a slip back into shame.

It was worryingly clear what had been going through John's head. No job, no money, no use.

It must have been like crashing back a few years.

But what was he meant to do about it? John didn't want pity, fought against help, railed against leaning on someone, so what was Sherlock meant to say when he walked through the door?

What?

* * *

Whether it was because Sherlock paced the door for an hour or the simple effect of the day but John was asleep by the time Sherlock entered the room.

Still so thin. So…not John.

Sherlock dragged the chair over and sat by John's bed, staring at him thoughtfully. He bent his head over John's hands and traced the dry skin around the knuckled, the split skin from a cut.

Punched something. A wall maybe? Not someone though; the abrasions were wrong for that. The edge of his thumb was slightly cut; a jagged stripe from the cutter on boxing tape and numerous small paper cuts from the edges of cardboard boxes when they were broken down after a delivery.

Shop worker.

Slowly, Sherlock's fingers traced John's hand until they came upon the flat smoothness of an old bun from a hot rifle.

Soldier.

Lingering on it, Sherlock swallowed before moving up to John's nails; fastidiously clean as it seemed that the thorough hand wash of medical staff had been burned into John's subconscious.

Doctor.

Cheap watch; most people got a nice watch as a present for their eighteenth or twenty first and then again at the age of thirty or so. It was either that or family heirlooms. He'd sold the watch when money had become tight. A basic brand of soap and shampoo radiated from John still; no aftershave or designer products. Still aware of money, still reluctant to spend, yet utterly fastidious about his grooming. He was clean shaven, hair ruthlessly short, teeth scrubbed. It wasn't about vanity but about shame.

Homeless.

Sherlock traced his fingers up John's arms, rising until he found the upper arms and the track marks.

Addict.

"You're awake," Sherlock said quietly.

"Yeah," John said in a hoarse voice. "You know then."

It wasn't a question.

Sherlock said nothing as his fingers traced the marks on John's skin.

"I can move out," John said after a long minute of silence.

"You have track marks," Sherlock murmured, still tracing them.

Underneath his touch, John stiffened and, out of the corner of Sherlock's eye, he could see John swallow.

"Addict," Sherlock said slowly, then moved his hands down. "Homeless," he added, dancing down to the watch. "Doctor," he said dancing his fingers to John's nails. "Soldier, Shop assistant."

"Sherlock-"

"Brother," Sherlock added. "You gave me your phone the first time we met and I could tell you were a brother. Hero; you shot a man to save my life; I told Lestrade it showed your strong moral focus. Carer; you cooked for me the second day we lived together, even though I had left blood dripping in the fridge. I have heard you called a seducer, a saint, a nutter, a friend. You stayed on the phone to me on the roof; you didn't once look away or hang up despite what you knew you might see. Bravery then. You forgave me for putting sugar in your tea when I thought it was an hallucinogen. Forgiving. You laughed with me on a crime scene. You didn't once believe I was Moriarty even though I thought you might be him for exactly twenty three seconds at the pool."

John swallowed, his forehead wrinkling. "What-"

"You don't fit a box. It's why I liked you in the first place. I can never just put you in one place, you wriggle out, show me something that doesn't fit until I need a separate box, just for you." Sherlock watched John carefully. "I can deduce people in an instant, categorise them in seconds. Yet I can't with you, I can never see everything, never decide where you go."

Sherlock reached over and tapped the track marks again. "Why does this," he said, "have a greater significance to you than this?" he asked, tapping at the burn mark.

John's eyes fluttered down.

"And this," he said, tapping at the watch, "Why is the fact you were once homeless more important to you than the fact you were once a surgeon?"

Slowly, John stared at his thumb, rubbing it against his forefinger. "Unemployed now," he said with a sigh. "What tells you that?"

"Nothing."

John blinked at him.

"You think that I could tell from you walking down the street that you were unemployed? No," Sherlock shook his head. "I can tell jobs you have had. How am I to know you don't still do them?"

"So…you're saying I can lie to people I meet in the street?" John asked, missing the point.

"I'm saying I can't define all that you are by just citing one aspect of your life. I fail to see how you think you can improve on my ability."

The look Sherlock received was rather startled.

"And…" Sherlock said, stroking a finger along the back of John's hand. "How am I to tell what the next thing will be, what the next clue will be. But you are a man who does things with his life, John. I promise there will be another clue for me to find one day."

John almost smiled, his eyes a little bright. "Maybe," he said sounding terribly sad. "But now…Now I have nothing to offer-"

"Find something then." Really, it was quite obvious.

But John flinched a little and looked away. "Yeah," he said, avoiding Sherlock's gaze. "As soon as I'm back-"

With an irritated noise, Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You really are being rather dense…" he let out a long sigh and considered how to get it through to John. "You were a soldier, correct."

John nodded, not really looking as if he were paying attention.

"And in a battle, did you flail wildly and without direction, hoping for the best, or did you duck and cover, pause to come up with an aim, a plan to continue?"

"Plan," John said and then sighed. "Well…depending on whether the CO was-"

"John," Sherlock growled at him.

"Plan." John nodded, tipping his head back.

"Then let me cover you."

John darted his gaze back to Sherlock's in surprise.

"Please," Sherlock added, ducking to press a kiss to John's hand. "When you come home, let me do this for you."

There was a small shake of John's head and then a long sigh. "That's a really bad way to start a relationship, Sherlock-"

"We're hardly starting a relationship, John, we've been in one for years. We've merely changed it."

A flat look was levelled at Sherlock. "A bad way to start a romantic relationship," John muttered, still stubborn.

"Again," Sherlock shrugged. "We've been dancing around that for long enough. This is hardly a brand new thing where we have to prove ourselves to each other. I get bored and find distractions, you have a pathological love of danger and risk. We knew that within the first twenty four hours of exchanging hellos."

Despite his argument, John seemed unconvinced.

"Do you think we could return to being friends? Would that allow you to accept my help?"

"No," John said, looking thoughtful. "No, we couldn't…I mean," he shifted uncomfortably, "we don't do much, but…it's habit now to reach out to touch you."

"Habit?" Sherlock scowled.

"You know what I mean," John said, unruffled.

"You are drowning," Sherlock waded in, levelling his chin. "And you are more than capable of keeping your head above water, John; make no mistake about that. But that is all your will be able to achieve-"

John winced.

"I want to help," Sherlock breathed, suddenly feeling a little lost. John was beyond stubborn and this wasn't…it wasn't exactly easy territory for Sherlock to navigate alone. "For the first time ever, I want to help."

That seemed to capture John's attention and then Sherlock saw a flicker of true indecision.

Almost.

But John was like a wild animal, push too hard and he would fight back, dig his heels in and stand his ground.

"Please."

He tried to say it honestly. So many times, for so many years he had faked the word and the accompanying sentiment.

"Try it my way," Sherlock added, focusing on the hand held in his own. "Just try. Let me cover you."

John's thumb stroked Sherlock's skin.

"Rehab," he said firmly. "Then…" he drew in a shuddering breath and nodded. "Then…if you're still sure…"

"No rehab and come home now," Sherlock bargained petulantly.

John shook his head. "Last time I had to go. This time…I want to. I want…" he closed his eyes and cleared his throat. "I don't want to just hide it this time. I want to learn how…how to deal with it. How to move forward."

Sherlock leaned forward to press a kiss to the back of John's hand, smiling.

Yes.

* * *

Next Chapter: Indebted - Sherlock learns a new technique when John starts to feel as if he owes Sherlock something.


	12. Indebted

Indebted

Chapter Summary: John tries to thank Sherlock for all he has done.

* * *

The stairs had been hoovered. Immaculately.

Oh God.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock walked up the stairs with a determined march and winced at the sight of the living room; it was so clean it looked as if it were waiting to be photographed for an ad campaign.

"This is highly annoying," Sherlock complained, turning to look at John who was sitting at the clean and empty table, drumming his fingers.

"I'm bored," John complained, leaning his head on the table. "How do people do this?"

"Go for a walk," Sherlock suggested then huffed in annoyance. "Did you clean my equipment?" he asked, rushing over to the sink.

"It was green," John said to the table. "New rule. If it's green and fuzzy and glass, we don't keep it."

"It was important," Sherlock corrected with a snap.

"It was toxic," John lifted his head slightly. "I wouldn't have eaten out of it and I have eaten out of disgusting things before."

That was new.

John never talked about the practicalities of being on the street, never eased past the topic as if it were normal or boring.

Since returning from the clinic, John had actually gone to see a Mycroft recommended therapist and used him properly.

Perhaps too well.

"Such as?"

Silence.

Okay then, it appeared the actual new rule was that only John could raise such subjects. Sherlock could not pry.

Highly frustrating.

"You could come on the case," Sherlock offered, slamming the cupboard shut as he spotted his now gleaming beakers. "If nothing else you could attempt to reorder Scotland Yard's filing system. Some of it is truly appalling."

John thudded his head back on the table. "That should not sound as tempting as it does."

Amused, Sherlock placed a kiss on his neck as he walked by.

John froze.

"Ah," Sherlock backed off a little, berating himself. It had been such an easy atmosphere that he'd forgotten-

No, not forgotten. Hoped he could get away with it.

"Apologies," Sherlock said, the word stumbling awkwardly out of his mouth. "I didn't-"

John sat up properly and waved a dismissive hand, "I know," he soothed. "Just…wasn't expecting that. I was half expecting a rant about the coffee."

Right.

No.

"The coffee?" Sherlock asked, darting forward to the container-

It was empty.

One.

Two.

Three-

Insufferable technique.

"What is this?" Sherlock asked, turning back to John and waving the container at him.

"It was green," John said in disgust. "How do you even make coffee beans green?"

Sherlock slammed the tub down on the counter. "Well, now we'll never know."

* * *

They were sleeping together.

Oddly, in John's room. Sherlock had crawled into bed with him every night when John had returned from the clinic, even if just for a few hours.

They hadn't exactly talked about it though.

Which was why it was somewhat surprising when Sherlock stumbled in at four in the morning that John turned to him while Sherlock climbed under the covers and kissed him.

A proper, delicious kiss that made Sherlock groan and change his angle so he was braced on top of John rather than curling up next to him. One that had John wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck to pull him closer.

Yes.

"You awake?" Sherlock mumbled into John's mouth.

"Yes," John replied, sounding alert.

Even better.

John didn't flinch when Sherlock dared his hands to go to the bottom of John's pyjama top. Nervous, as if unwrapping a present that he cared about, Sherlock smoothed his hands up and lowered his kiss to John's jaw.

Nothing.

Sherlock smiled into the skin as clever hands pulled through his hair and stroked his back.

It was wonderful to indulge in John, to risk lowering his hands to the bottoms John wore. He slipped a hand down slowly, waiting for the flinch.

None came.

Hmm.

Sherlock dipped his kisses further down to John's throat and felt the nervous swallow.

He lifted his hand up and out.

"It's fine," John said tightly.

"You're nervous," Sherlock mused, nuzzling his throat.

"To be expected," John countered.

Were they really going to have to go through this?

"Your pulse is thundering away," Sherlock added, feeling the vein pulsing beneath the skin at the base of John's neck.

"Aroused," John excused.

"You're defensive," Sherlock added. "Clenching your hands, laying still and your shoulders are pressed back to keep you in position," he raised his head to look at John. "Should I continue?"

John lifted his gaze to the ceiling. "I've been driving you mad," he muttered. "You should get something for it."

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five-

"I didn't," John groaned and wriggled to sit up. "I didn't mean…" he avoided Sherlock's gaze. "I didn't mean it to sound like you wanted payment."

Slowly, mostly because he wasn't entirely sure what he would say, Sherlock sat back on his heels and regarded John.

He still didn't know what to say. Or rather, he did; he just didn't know how to navigate the conversation without saying something that Lestrade would term as 'harsh'.

"Sherlock?" John sounded nervous. "It's…what do you want to do?" he asked, sounding lost.

"Never," Sherlock heard himself say, "Never think of it like that between us. We will not be using sex like some bartering chip-"

Frustration blazed in John's eyes. "I know. I don't mind-"

"I don't want you to 'not mind', I want you to want it," Sherlock snapped, his fingers gripping the bed tightly, part of him knowing that if he let go he would simply walk out in sheer anger.

John let out a frustrated noise and thumped his head back on the wall. "I don't want to see them, Sherlock. I want to see you. Give me something else to see when we do this."

"Oh, what a wonderful idea. We can have sex, you can bite your lip and hate it and then you can think of me when you remember being raped."

John threw himself out of the bed furiously. "I was not raped," he snarled at Sherlock. "And I have no wish to keep feeling like this. I chose it, I'm not some victim-"

Sherlock actually collapsed back on the bed in annoyance.

"What?"

"I am so bored of having this fight," Sherlock complained, folding his arm over his face. "Yes you chose, well done you. You would not have had sex-"

"I never had sex-"

"Do not be a fourteen year old girl about this John. You engaged in sexual activity whether or not your arse was involved." Sherlock took a deep breath. "You would not have had sex unless there had been payment involved. Your consent was not freely given."

"You sound like a text book," John hissed.

"Don't be ridiculous, I paraphrased the message the author was dancing around and made it clear. God only knows why she was paid to write it; she seems determined to make it far more complicated than it is."

"You…" John sounded a little softer. "You read up on it?"

Sherlock pulled his arm of his face to glance at John. "Yes…" he hesitated. "Good?"

John winced and stepped a little closer, shoulder dropping slightly. "I…it feels wrong to think of it like that. I wasn't a young girl, attacked and hurt-"

"You are neither young, nor female," Sherlock allowed, sitting up. "I fail to see why you need the distinction."

John seemed torn as he stepped nearer again. "If…if I was…it means I was powerless."

He had been.

But Sherlock could see why John held onto the faint wisp of an idea that he had made a conscious decision.

Lestrade had told him to open up a little and perhaps John would follow. It seemed to be the entirely wrong way round now, but Sherlock shifted and let out a long sigh.

"I do not want…I do not want you to feel indebted. You do not have to clean or cook or engage in bed duties. I enjoy having you here and arguing with you. An exchange of your company is all I desire."

"Bed duties?" John asked, wincing at the words.

"That is not what I intended you to focus on," Sherlock complained.

John sat on the edge on the bed, nodding. "I need to do something," John said looking at the window. "I'm over thinking things."

"I doubt that," Sherlock muttered. "You're simply thinking about the wrong things and allowing yourself to be distracted by irrelevancies, as usual."

John's lips twitched. "Is that your way of saying I'm not clever enough to overthink things?"

"That is not what I said," Sherlock replied warily.

John flashed him a smile as he turned to look at Sherlock properly, and then frowned at the pillows. "I hate this," he said shaking his head. "The things I would have done to you…" he trailed off and shook his head.

Things?

That sounded promising.

"Such as?" Sherlock asked, trying to keep his voice from sounding too interested.

John smiled. "I'd really prefer to just show you one day." He seemed to sag a little. "Hopefully before we're both old and grey."

"You're already grey," Sherlock pointed out. "Tell me."

But John's cheeks were burning now and he looked suddenly self-conscious. "I…we really have a way to go before I can do dirty talk again."

Whatever memory it was that flashed in John's head made Sherlock want to strangle someone.

"Have you thought then?" Sherlock asked. "About what you want to do with your time?"

"Maybe," John replied, looking grateful for the subject change. "But…" he hesitated. "I don't know how realistic it is or the pay for-"

"Ignore the pay," Sherlock instructed. "Is it a nine to five job?"

"No."

"Flexible then. You could pick and choose your shifts?"

"Yes. To a point. Why-"

"In an office?" Sherlock asked cautiously.

"No, Sherlock-"

"Is there a uniform?"

Now John did glare. "I meant how realistic it is for me with my past, not how realistic it is for you to drag me onto cases while I'm working."

Oh.

"What is it then?"

"I…" John shifted, "I'd like to help soldiers that have returned to readjust, to help those that are out there homeless. There are a few charities that pay a bit to have mentors and to work with the disaffected-"

That would be useful.

John would know people, would know rumours…would be known and excellent link to report back to Sherlock.

He'd be an invaluable source of information.

"That's brilliant," Sherlock leaped out of the bed.

"It is?" John asked, watching him.

"The people you would know, the information-"

"No," John crashed back on the bed. "No, Sherlock I am not doing this to be your homeless information source-"

"But you want to do it and it will be useful to the work. Why quibble?" Sherlock asked, trying to find his phone.

"What are you doing?"

"Calling Mycroft to find out what you need to do-"

"It's four in the morning," John scolded, even as his eyes lit in laughter.

"Even better."


	13. Textbook

Textbook

* * *

"Well, really, how thick do you have to be?" Sherlock demanded down the phone to Dimmock. "I had hoped you had lost the bull headed nature after failing to close four cases in a row-"

Sherlock ducked as a piece of balled up paper soared past his head and half listened to Dimmock's attempt at a scathing reply as he turned to glare at John.

"Problem?" he mouthed at John.

John, sitting at the desk, glared at him as he drummed his pen on the pad of paper. "Go and argue with him at the yard."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock covered the mouth piece for the phone. "Being in his presence for more than thirty seconds will cause my brain to ooze out of my ears as a defensive strategy to escape his stupidity," Sherlock complained.

The glare he received was almost on par with those he had gotten before he had 'died'.

"As a former doctor, I can tell you that is certainly not going to happen."

"How relieved I am for your wisdom," Sherlock snapped. "No, not you Dimmock; why on earth would that be directed at you?"

The dial tone answered him.

Sherlock predicted it would take the man three hours to accept he was out of his depth. Maybe four.

Bored, he sat down opposite John and started to read the textbook upside down.

"No," John said firmly, not even looking at him.

"I'm not doing anything-"

"Yet."

Sherlock let out an annoyed breath and sulked back into his chair. "I still don't see why you have to complete a course. You have experience-"

"No, well, you wouldn't," John replied easily. "Not everyone can just make up a profession."

They could; they were just too stupid to do so. "That sentence is appalling," Sherlock complained glancing over the introductory paragraph John had written.

John looked down and seemed to re-read it, then groaned and sat back tilting his face to the ceiling. "This is a stupid idea," John muttered.

"Well, yes. You're waffling dreadfully, careening between points and listing-"

"This, not the essay. I've been out of academics for years," John said with a sigh. "And even then it was for medical essays. The closest I came to this was an essay on ethics which, as I recall, was my weakest piece."

"Well of course it was, you shoot people."

John snorted and lowered his head to look at Sherlock. "Not quite what I meant," he said with a small smile.

Studying him, Sherlock traced a finger over John's scrawled words. "You are trying too hard," he said eventually. "Trying to impress, trying to sound like something you aren't-"

"Sherlock-"

"It's social work," Sherlock said, pushing the paper back to John properly. "You aren't meant to sound like an Oxford Professor. You are meant to show that you understand what you have read, that you have some common sense and some sensitivity to these matters. Some personal ability to be innovative and adapt to situations. All of which you are more than capable of doing."

John clicked his jaw and then narrowed his eyes. "And you know that how?"

"I read the mark scheme, the thing that you balled up and shoved at the bottom of your pocket." Sherlock spotted the doubtful look in John's eyes. "And that isn't cheating, that's using everything to its full advantage."

John slowly reached out for the paper and the pen again and tore off the page he had started.

"Explain it to me," Sherlock said. "Though in your head, I certainly have no wish to listen to this entire bloody thing being rephrased."

"So I should explain it to a layman?" John asked, tapping the pen on the pad again.

"No, explain it-" Sherlock broke off and checked his watch. "Three minutes," he said. "Explain to me why I shouldn't offer a homeless person my half-finished bag of crisps."

"Because they aren't pets to get scraps at the end of a meal and because sometimes, if it's really bad, you can't afford to say no and that meal haunts you for days-"

"Why?"

John sat back. "Lack of choice. It hammers it home all over again and it's humiliating. For the next few days you'll bristle when someone gives you unopened and specially bought food instead of money because you feel as though you can't be trusted, even though you know logically why it's done."

"How would you solve the problem?"

John frowned at that. "I…"

Sherlock waited, expecting a typical answer about re-educating people, which seemed to be the solution to everything in the textbook.

"I'd tell anyone who lives on the streets to look at it like they were receiving pet food to feed strays."

Sherlock almost smiled. "Why?"

"Waste not, want not. And…when you see the animals you do want to give 'em something. At least that way you feel good and you don't give away half of a damn good sandwich."

Sherlock tapped the paper. "Continue," he said, standing up.

Then he hesitated and, broadcasting his intention, lowered himself to kiss John softly on the mouth.

"Did that ever happen to you?" he asked gently as he pulled away from the careful kiss.

John nodded. "A few times. But…sometimes…" he seemed to think about it. "There was a woman once, coming out of the station. She said her new fella had bought her a tea and she hated tea. She was so apologetic and said that it would only go in the bin and she hadn't touched it…she was so worried I'd be upset that I told her she'd made my day bringing over a good cup of tea and if she didn't want to tell her new boyfriend that she hated tea I'd be there tomorrow as well."

Sherlock brushed his lips against John's forehead. "Did she?"

"She bought me a tea and a bacon sandwich to thank me for giving her a good story to use when explaining it all to the new boyfriend. She was only in London for a few days."

The idea of John being without tea was…painful.

So he boiled the kettle.

* * *

For once, it was John that crawled into Sherlock's bed at three in the morning. A little fuzzy from sleep, Sherlock turned to him instantly, snuggling into him. "Finish it?" he asked, nuzzling into John's shoulder.

"Almost," John said curling around him. "Case?"

"Dull. Dimmock managed to solve it." That had been highly unexpected and annoying. The idiot had phoned Sherlock to come in, just to crow about it. "Still needed to explain where the missing jewel was though," Sherlock added with a yawn. "I emailed Lestrade the details, in case Dimmock doesn't have a flash of brain function twice in twenty four hours."

A hand snaked down to Sherlock's crotch and then hesitated. "I…would you…do you want-"

Sherlock opened his eyes and pulled back to study John.

Nervous, yes, but not tense or pushing himself too much.

"Yes," Sherlock said simply, pushing his head under John's chin and kissing at the skin there.

Cautiously, John stroked Sherlock's thigh as if waiting to be pushed away or told differently. Trying to keep him at ease, Sherlock simply pressed small kisses to John's throat and didn't push for anything more.

"Fuck," John hissed, rolling away. "I thought…" he sat up and shook his head.

"You are allowed to change your mind," Sherlock said, watching the suddenly tense lines of his back.

"I'm messing you around," John said tightly.

"Mm. You do remember that I do summon you across London just to pass me a pen."

John let out a long sigh. "I never thought you'd be this patient," he said, then seemed to baulk suddenly. "Christ," he muttered , turning back to Sherlock quickly. "I didn't mean that to sound-"

Sherlock sat up and kissed him.

In all honesty, he wasn't entirely sure it was the best thing to do. But John was being insufferably stupid and would likely dwell on the issue morosely for days.

Pulling back, he tucked them both back down and into the bed, shifting until he was comfortable. "Go to sleep," he ordered John. "I wish to be at my best when Dimmock has to grovel to Lestrade for the contents of the email."

"Sherlock-"

"It was a bigger step than you think it was," Sherlock said, closing his eyes. "You initiated, you articulated and you stopped when you were uncomfortable."

Even if he had barely managed to get started. Though, in some ways, that was preferable to getting halfway through and stopping.

Sherlock had no idea how he was going to keep calm during that.

There was a long silence.

John's breathing evened out, no longer trying to form a sentence to explain or argue or thank.

Then, just as Sherlock was about to fall back to sleep, John shifted.

"I do love you," he whispered.

"Yes."

John stiffened. "I thought you were asleep," he said, sounding mortified.

"I, no…" Sherlock climbed over John to see his face. "I…"

"Yes," John seemed to be trying to smother himself in his pillow. "I heard. You said yes-"

"I meant-." Sherlock glared and tugged the pillow away. "I meant…it was good. A good thing to say, I meant-"

John winced and rolled away.

Climbing over again, Sherlock flopped down opposite John. "It was a celebratory yes."

John lifted his head slightly and raised an eyebrow.

What?

Oh!

"And me too. I mean love you. I do." Sherlock winced at the tumble of words and shook his head in some disgust at their disorder. "Obvious," he added, uncomfortable and looking away.

"Yes," John said, a hint of amusement slipping in.

"Shut up," Sherlock growled, thudding the pillow at John's face. "And go to sleep."

John laughed and tucked the pillow back under his head. "Yes."

It still sounded a little mocking so Sherlock just slipped his cold hands onto John's stomach and smirked as the man gasped at the sensation and kicked back gently.

"Cold," Sherlock murmured, as if hurt by the situation.

"Git."


	14. Where loved ones should be

Where loved ones are meant to be

John's new job raises memories for Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock came back to a dark flat at eight o clock and stared up at the dark windows thoughtfully.

He'd promised to leave John alone this week; promised not to stalk him or interrogate people. Thankfully, there had been a rather interesting case that had distracted him until an hour ago.

Quietly, he opened the door and made his way softly up to the flat.

John was home.

At the top of the stairs he nudged the door open and peered around.

John sat in the chair, staring at the windows and a glass of water in his hand.

There was the smell of bleach wafting faintly from the bathroom upstairs.

"Regretting it?" Sherlock asked quietly, slightly unsure of how to proceed with this. After all, there were very few resources that would help Sherlock in supporting John in confronting what was once his reality."

"No." John's reply was firm, strong. "Just…it's amazing how quickly you can forget things."

"Like?" Sherlock asked, stepping forward.

After a moment, John's hand slipped down the chair's side and held out slightly to Sherlock.

The sight made Sherlock smile and he reached out to take the hand, sitting himself on the edge of the chair to listen as he stroked John's hand.

"The smell," John breathed. "And how cold you can get, how continuous it is. No privacy or books or something to take pride in-"

Sherlock leaned down to press a long, deep kiss to John's head.

"How's the case?" John asked, seeming to shake himself out of the mood.

"Finished. It was the driver." Sherlock smirked into his hair, "There must be something about the career of driving people around that turns them into killers. That's the fourth one that's taken up the habit of murder."

"Our first case was a taxi driver," John remembered sounding fond.

"Mm," Sherlock murmured, nipping at John's ear.

John tilted his head slightly. "You are aware I threw up five minutes ago?" he asked, sounding almost amused.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock continued to kiss down John's throat. "I will refrain from sticking my tongue down your throat then."

John laughed. "Only you could make me being courteous sound like I was being an idiot," he said warmly, even as he pulled away.

It was a relaxed pulling away though, one that was more simply not quite in the right mood than for any other deep dark reason. John's ease made Sherlock hum approvingly as John shifted out of the seat to pour himself some more water and put the light on in the process.

"Strange though," John said as he stood at the sink.

"Mm?" Sherlock asked, trying to work out which experiment to start on next.

"Had to talk to a parent," John told him in between sips of water. "Strange seeing it from the other side. It seems…you separate it in your head, before and after. For them it's…continuous. Not separated…" he shrugged, walking back over. "Ignore me," John muttered with a sigh. "Doesn't even make sense in my head."

"They are living in the place where their loved one should be," Sherlock stood, looking out the window. "There's no way of pretending, constant reminders, no clean break."

"You been reading that book again?"

Sherlock shook his head.

* * *

_He was exhausted. His ribs ached and his leg was still healing from a close encounter with a bullet. As it was, after so many years away, he wanted one thing._

_The flat. Tea. His bed._

_John._

_But it was doubtful that John was still there, as much as he hoped it was different. At this early in the morning, even if John was still living at the flat, he would be asleep._

_That sounded tempting. A chance to see, a way to assure himself that he had won, that John was safe and alive, sleeping. The closer Sherlock got to the flat, the more he hoped._

_It was impossible to tell if John still lived there from the outside. Certainly the door had been used less and Mycroft had agreed to pay the rent to keep 221b for Sherlock until he returned, which ruled out new lodgers. Without knowing John's habits it would be foolish to make assumptions._

_Upstairs it was instantly clear._

_John was gone._

_Disappointed, Sherlock headed straight for his room, not even caring that the bed was stripped back to the mattress as he collapsed upon it._

_Sleep._

_Five hours later, Sherlock woke to a scream._

_Mrs Hudson's lungs were as powerful as ever then._

* * *

"You're quiet," John said, looking up and over his notes.

"Thinking," Sherlock mumbled as he stood at the window.

"Ah."

Outside the rain beat down upon the glass, fingers of it trailing down and blurring the world.

"About anything in particular?"

"How did you find out?" Sherlock asked, watching a woman run below, her umbrella soaked as she trotted along.

"About?"

"Me. Returning. How did you find out?"

Silence.

Curious, he turned to look at John who had paused and dropped his notes onto his lap.

"I…" John shook his head. "Does it matter?"

"Indulge me," Sherlock coaxed, striding over to him.

"The news," John replied, lifting his notes up, though his eyes remained fixed upon one spot.

The news.

It should never have been that way.

* * *

"_You were meant to come straight to me," Mycroft scolded as Sherlock dried his hair with a towel._

"_Why?" Sherlock asked frankly. "This is still my flat is it not? You used my funds."_

_Mycroft frowned and shook his head. "If nothing else it would have spared Mrs Hudson having a nasty shock this morning."_

"_She'll live," Sherlock muttered. "Where's John?"_

_The silence, as he pulled his shirt on, made him pause and look up at his brother rather than down at his buttons._

_For the first time in years, Mycroft was staring at the floorboards. The last time he'd done that had been when he confessed he'd used a deduction of Sherlock's to get a job._

_A shiver of fear raced through Sherlock. "Where is-"_

"_I heard the question," Mycroft snapped._

"_Yet I am not hearing an answer."_

_Mycroft licked his lips, a left over nervous habit picked up from their mother. "That would be because I don't know it."_

_Lazy pompous twit. "Then order one of your overpaid minions-"_

"_I have not lost track of him, Sherlock. I cannot find him."_

_What?_

_Tilting his head, Sherlock stepped forward. "How?" he asked in a dangerous tone._

"_He was hardly my priority-"_

"_He was mine," Sherlock snapped back without thinking his words through. "You know that-"_

"_Do you want the facts or do you want to snipe at me?" Mycroft asked, his arms making an abortive move to fold his arms._

_Sherlock nodded briskly, continuing to do up his shirt._

"_He left London," Mycroft said with a sigh. "Over a year ago, just after the retraction. He wanted some peace I believe."_

"_And then?"_

"_Then? Then I have no idea."_

"_Phone contracts, rental agreements? His sodding National Insurance tax records-"_

"_Not used."_

"_What do you mean, 'not used'?" Sherlock snapped, reaching for his coat. "How can they not be used?"_

_Mycroft shook his head. "It is a mystery."_

_Pulling his coat on violently, Sherlock glared at him. "A mystery is a pathetic Edwardian murder story. This is not a mystery, Mycroft, this is unacceptable."_

* * *

"Coming?" John asked gently as he stood to go to bed.

"Why did you move?"

From his position on the sofa, Sherlock could practically hear the curious tilt of John's head. "I…sorry?"

"You. You moved away. Surrey. Why?"

"Why are you asking?" John asked, a hint of steel in his voice. "Why…" he let out a sudden noise of frustration. "Me talking to the mother of that runaway, that's what's got you…" John trailed off awkwardly. "I didn't mean it to sound as if…I suppose you know how she feels, a bit."

"Doubtful," Sherlock said staring at the ceiling. "Unless her loved one was threatened by assassins, a target of an international crime web and-" he cut himself off. "Go to bed," he sighed.

But John edged closer. "You went looking for me?" he asked sounding hesitant.

"You know I did. The map-"

"I…I suppose so."

Sherlock turned his head to him. "I scoured your old flat, the one you just walked out on. I tried to track down the possessions that the landlord had sold on. Talked to colleagues, neighbours. You hid it well."

There was a sharp gaze suddenly, as if a thought had suddenly occurred to John. "You…what did you think had happened then?"

Sherlock shook his head.

* * *

"_You have searched for over a month-"_

"_And will continue to do so," Sherlock hissed. "People do not just disappear, Lestrade. People stop looking."_

_Lestrade buried his head in his hands and slowly looked up. "I…Christ, Sherlock, I don't like the idea any more than you but…have you considered the possibility-"_

"_No."_

"_Sherlock-"_

"_No," Sherlock snarled. "He is alive. I refuse to accept any other outcome."_

"_I know you were friends-"_

_Sherlock snorted bitterly, unable to help himself._

_Friends._

_How unfair that he'd beaten away the possibility of more on the second day of meeting John's acquaintance. A few hours difference and he would have seen….more. Seen John, properly._

_They'd never gone near the subject again until John had started dating women left, right and centre, declaring he wasn't gay to anyone who would listen._

_Never realising that Sherlock never corrected anyone's assumption._

_His one lie, the one falsehood he'd allowed._

_A small pathetic hope._

"_Oh," Lestrade murmured softly. "Sherlock-"_

"_Save your pity," Sherlock snapped. "I need something more useful than that."_

_He needed John._

_Alive._

_Please God, after all that he had been through, let John be alive._

* * *

"I thought you knew," John murmured to him in bed, later that night.

"Knew? That you were homeless, addicted and hurt?" Sherlock asked staring at the ceiling. "I am not omnipotent, John."

"No," John shifted, turning to him in the bed. "At the park, when you came back after…after you were asking about me. I thought you'd realised…"

It still pained Sherlock to admit that he had barely glanced at the other homeless man, that he still couldn't link the bearded, hunched form with John Watson. That it had been one more night John had spent cold and alone that Sherlock could have spared him from if he'd looked harder or thought it through better.

Hating the thought, he turned to John and ran a hand over the man's arm, feeling the plumpness of skin, muscle and fat again, delighting in it now that John was returning to his normal weight. The small left over marks from the drug use were fading slowly.

"I should have," Sherlock said quietly.

A gentle hand stroked his jaw. "I'm glad you didn't," John said with a small smile in his voice. "I preffered….it was nice, knowing I chose to come back."

True, Sherlock supposed, pressing a kiss to John's hand. "Why did you?" he asked.

"Because I knew you'd find me," John said quietly. "And you deserved…you deserved to know. To stop wondering. To have answers. The moment I knew you were still looking I thought I should see you again."

"You thought I wouldn't look?"

It was hard to keep the hurt from his voice, but John shifted, hearing it all the same.

"I…" John sighed. "You'd been gone longer than we'd lived together and….and I wasn't the man I used to be. I wasn't sure…"

"You are an idiot," Sherlock sighed, shifting close to John and luxuriating in his body heat. "I fell in love with you the day you came home complaining about a chip and pin machine. I will always look for you."

John answered with a sweet kiss. "Thank you."


	15. Away from Home

Away from home

Sherlock takes John on a working holiday.

* * *

"Norfolk?" John asked doubtfully.

"Yes," Sherlock replied tossing the suitcase on the bed.

"You want to go to Norfolk?" John asked again, coming a little closer. "Do you know what they have in Norfolk?"

"Enlighten me," Sherlock replied.

"Nothing. They have nothing. Their biggest news story the other week was that a JCB was stuck in the sea. I went to Norfolk for my holiday once as a kid. Harry and I had to listen to a man describe the blue cheese in his fridge."

"Sounds relaxing," Sherlock replied pulling open a drawer. John was in such a snit there was a good possibility that he wouldn't notice Sherlock simply tipping the drawer upside down and into the suitcase.

God, he detested packing.

"It's a case, isn't it?" John said in a different tone of voice. A suspicious one that sounded as if he were trying to be more annoyed than he actually was.

"Old case, cold case," Sherlock confirmed, rolling his eyes and picking up clumps of clothes. Apparently John had picked today to be mildly observant.

"So not a holiday," John replied.

"I was being realistic," Sherlock replied. "I hardly think it will be relaxing if I get bored enough to create my own case to solve."

John was quiet.

Sherlock paused and replayed his words.

"Which obviously would be a foolish thing for me to do, considering," Sherlock said, glaring at the suitcase.

John let out a long breath. "Yeah," he said sounding annoyed with himself. "And obviously something you wouldn't do. You hate cheating. It's boring."

Sherlock nodded. "There's a cottage," he said awkwardly, trying to refocus on what to pack. "Close to the spot where the body was found fifteen years ago. The killer may even still live nearby-"

"Okay," John said, running a soothing hand down Sherlock's back. "But if we get stuck listening to some boring tale about kitchen appliances again I'm leaving you to their mercy."

* * *

Sherlock stared at the cottage from the gate.

"It's…" he turned his lip up. "John, there is no signal here," he added, turning in horror.

In the rain, John folded his arms and glared at Sherlock. "Get in or move," John ordered. "I'm not standing out here in the rain because you've suddenly realised that the world did not come equipped with internet reception."

Sherlock shook his head. "How do people live like this-"

"They don't. We are in the middle of no-where. There are no signal towers close by. Didn't you think to check if there was wifi?"

"Why would there not be?"

John groaned and put his head in his head, water dripping from his hair. "I swear to god, you are the stupidest genius in the world."

"But-"

"It's cold."

John.

Flustered, Sherlock finally reached over to open the gate and walked up the garden path, fumbling with the keys. Behind him he could hear John getting their things out of the boot of the car they'd hired.

Cold his arse, John just knew it would make him move.

"You played me," he muttered as John walked up the path with their suitcase.

"Yeah," John said frankly. "Move again or I'll throw in how wet it is and how I might get a cold."

Manipulative man.

Stepping in, Sherlock reached out for the light switch.

It had to be somewhere.

Annoyed he started to pat the wall.

"Uh…Sherlock," John said standing in the doorway, the porch covering his back as he used the light on his key ring to study a leaflet. "Out of curiosity, what prompted you to pick here?"

"It was close to a murder site," Sherlock muttered. "And 'romantic', though God knows how these people define romantic-"

"Rustic romance?" John asked sounding amused.

"Yes, some rubbish like that. Why is there no light switch?"

Behind him John started to laugh. A full belly laugh that was so contagious that Sherlock felt his own lips twitch in response, despite the situation.

"What?"

"You tit," John giggled. "There's no fucking electricity. It's rustic romance. 'A chance to get away from the modern world'," he added as he read from the leaflet. "'Here, you can shut out all those silly complaints and distractions and focus on what really matters. You and your partner'," John sniggered. "God people really will pay for anything," he sighed, turning it over to study the back.

No electricity? No internet? No signal?

"What do people usually do?" Sherlock asked, baffled.

"Shag," John said frankly, still sounding as if he were reading. "Walk along the fields and the beach…huh…apparently it's eroding and we might see a sight that will elude generations to come…" John groaned. "Who the hell writes this?"

Shag?

Probably not a good idea to focus on that.

"How am I meant to solve a murder without tools?" Sherlock muttered, kicking at the floor, still standing in the darkened room.

"So…without modern equipment you'll be as useless as the rest of us?" John asked, sounding amused. "Good thing you weren't born a hundred years ago-"

"I can," Sherlock argued turning on his heel to glare at John. "I'll prove it. No internet. No phone calls, no texting."

John made an odd sound. "I suppose you are also going to claim you know how to start a fire."

"I know how to burn a corpse," Sherlock considered. "The method cannot be that dissimilar."

"Mm," John didn't sound convinced. "I'll be doing that then."

* * *

Once the fire was going and Sherlock had watched as best he could in the dark to see what John was doing (and had been heartedly scolded for moving the light to John's eyes rather than keeping it on his hands) John settled back on the rug, his back against the chair and legs drawn up to his chest, watching the flames.

Busying himself, Sherlock lit the candles from the fire, placing them around the room. A quick look upstairs revealed that even morons had some brains and there was at least a fully functioning toilet next to the rather luxurious bedroom with the four poster bed and grand fireplace that hosted another log burner.

"There's another fireplace upstairs," Sherlock said as he walked back down.

John nodded, distracted by the fire. Seeing no other real option, Sherlock sat down next to him, pressing a kiss to John's shoulder.

John smiled and let out a laugh. "So…how are you enjoying Norfolk so far?"

"I have you all to myself," Sherlock said, pleased with the thought. "What more could I need?"

In answer, John ducked his head and found Sherlock's with his own.

It was tempting, so terribly, awfully tempting to push John down. To lay him on the rug and strip off the wet clothes. Somehow, with some deep well of will power that few would ever believe existed, he resisted the urge and kept the kiss sweet, light, playful.

Until fingers fumbled at his shirt.

"John-"

"Don't," John murmured in between kisses to Sherlock's jaw. "Just let me try."

How could one say no to such a request?

* * *

Ten minutes later, John was stomping around outside and Sherlock was in the shower, wanking into the spray.

* * *

"I didn't bring you here for that," Sherlock said into the uncomfortable silence as they lay in bed.

"No," John said in a monotone voice. "You don't believe in miracles."

"If you're going to be disgustingly self-pitying about it then you can just go to sleep."

John lay still for a moment before suddenly sitting up.

"It's fucking ridiculous," John hissed into his hands. "I know it's you, I know you won't…" he tipped his head back to the ceiling. "Why is this such an issue?" he hissed.

Sherlock moved forward, sitting so John's back was to his chest. "You are thinking about it too much," he said, resting his head upon John's shoulder. "Putting too much pressure on yourself. You do not have to finish-"

"It's not fair to you," John said in a tired voice.

Hmm.

Sherlock slid his hands around John's waist. "Don't assume every touch should end with an orgasm, that every time I kiss you I want you naked. Don't second guess what I want. You are not me."

John snorted. "Almost six years and I still can't deduce for shit."

They sat like that for an age, Sherlock moving his hands over John's body, stroking softly until John started to relax.

Then he deliberately pulled away.

John needed to relax when Sherlock touched him, to not always assume-

But John seemed to have other ideas and followed him down, kissing him and straddling Sherlock.

The kiss was needy, desperate and they tugged at each other, pushing and pulling at clothes.

"I love you," Sherlock breathed, needing him to know it. "Always-"

John kissed his words away, swallowed them down.

Pyjamas were pulled down and away and Sherlock curled a hand around them both, a hand on the back of John's head as they kissed, a smoothing thumb stroking his nape.

They'd just about got this far the last few times and Sherlock had always murmured something reassuring-

This time he kept kissing. Over and over, their breathing becoming more and more ragged.

Part of him didn't dare pull away to look when he felt John grow even harder in his hand and felt the strangled groan in his mouth. He wanted to see so much but he didn't want to do anything that would make John falter.

John gasped and gripped him tighter, then came.

His own climax was almost an afterthought, the glow of having had this, having made that step a far greater achievement. John buried his head in Sherlock's neck, panting.

They lay there for an age as their breathing calmed.

"Need to clean up," Sherlock murmured to John's hair. "Need to move."

"Mm," John agreed, snuggling closer.

Pressing a kiss to his head, Sherlock wriggled to get out and padded down to the bathroom. When he came back with a damp flannel John was sitting up, elbows on his knees.

"Was that-"

"Don't be a complete idiot," Sherlock said, climbing in next to him. "Here," he said, tossing the flannel at John.

* * *

They lay in bed together quietly, curled up around each other as the storm battered on outside.

"Go to sleep," Sherlock mumbled, half way there himself.

"I don't know what I thought would happen," John said.

The statement made Sherlock open an eye. "With regards to…?"

"This. Sex. Us. I don't know what I thought it would change."

Sherlock sighed. "Of course it wouldn't change anything. Really, John, you're far more intelligent than that-"

John laughed. "Sex makes you sweeter," he teased.

"I am not sweet," Sherlock huffed. "In no way am I sweet."

"Okay," John said, not sounding convinced.

"You have changed me," Sherlock said after a while, awake now as he watched the shadows dance across the window.

"Are you all right with that?" John asked.

"I'll live."

He felt John's smile in the dark. "Good."

* * *

One more chapter (Sherlock solving the case) and then an epilogue :)


	16. Back to Basics

Back to Basics

AN: This uses the Case of the Speckled Band.

Thanks to NicolettelliW for betaing

* * *

The wind tossed John's hair as he stood, squinting at Sherlock. "Need a hand?"

No.

The wind was catching the map, flapping it over and making the damn thing impossible to read. This was why phones and satnavs were far more useful.

"Want me to do it?"

"No."

John's sigh was still audible over the heavy wind. "We've been stood here for ten minutes now. Would you just give me the damn map?"

"Just because you were a soldier does not mean you can control the wind."

The map was snatched out of Sherlock's hand and, with an amused glare, John bent down, laying the map in the grass and hiding it from the worst of the wind.

"No, it means I have common sense."

"Overrated," Sherlock muttered, peering down. "Go on then, where do we need to go?"

John held his hand up for the compass.

"This was a stupid idea of yours," Sherlock said, passing it down. "We have wasted far too much time-"

"If they have waited fifteen years for the mystery to be solved then they can wait five days," John said as he looked around.

"It's professionally embarrassing," Sherlock decided, looking around.

"Why was the house knocked down?"

"That," Sherlock said, looking out at the flat fields that led to a sheer drop to the sea almost half a mile away, "is the best question you've asked all weekend."

"Really? I thought the best question was 'shall we do that again?'"

"Second best," Sherlock remedied, trying not to smile. "And you should have read the map by now."

"This way," John pointed as he stood, folding the map. "About ten more minutes."

"I walk quicker than you."

"You'll walk next to me and at my pace," John argued. "We're still on holiday."

Four days without technology. Four days of meeting people, of trawling through records by hand at the local heritage centre. It had been beyond frustrating.

And worth it.

Slowing down like this allowed John to almost catch up. To see the process Sherlock went through when he clicked over keys of danced his fingers over the screen of his phone.

"So go on then," John said as they walked. "Theories?"

"You tell me," Sherlock replied, looking at him. "You've seen all that I've seen."

John pulled a face, as if to concede that probably wasn't quite the case. "Okay…" he said licking his lips nervously. "Two sisters. Both dead. One died in the night in the hallway and the other died at the gate. The step father bulldozed part of the house a few years later because of the receding coastline and moved to India."

Sherlock nodded. "Congratulations, you can remember two newspaper articles."

That earned him an elbow jabbed into his side. "It was clearly the step father," John said. "He was odd, people always said it was him but…no proof. No wounds, no poisons-"

Sherlock winced.

"None found," John corrected sounding surprised. "So there was something?"

"No John, the man simply wished very hard one day that the girls would die rather than marry and God smiled upon him."

John threw up his hands. "I…don't be snarky," he muttered.

Amused, Sherlock turned to place an awkward kiss to John's wind-blown hair. "Have you met me?" he asked.

"It's relative," John argued with a grin. "It…there was something to do with the house."

Sherlock nodded.

"Somehow," John added, clearly baffled.

"Did you note what the step-father, Dr Roylott, has done with his life since?"

"India," John nodded. "Always had a thing for it, had visitors proclaiming to know long lost arts and magic. The locals thought he was nuts."

"Yes."

John was silent and, when Sherlock looked over at him, looked torn between frustration and laughter.

"You might see more when we get there," Sherlock said, somewhat graciously he thought. "Though you should have paid far more attention to Rebecca Cross' interview."

"The friend of Helen Stoner?" John asked. "And the hissing at night? That could have been anything, Sherlock."

"It could have been," Sherlock agreed, turning to walk backwards. "But it wasn't, John. Think. Both sisters heard that noise, Violet was moved into her sister's room after she died"

"I…dodgy plumbing," John offered. "Maybe he was gassing them?"

"She kept the window open."

"I…" John shrugged. "No clue."

"That's why I'm the detective."

* * *

They found the house easily. Hidden by the old fir trees and hedge that had once surrounded the gardens, the house was still half standing.

"The key," Sherlock said with glee. "Is that he wanted his rooms and the sisters' room to be bulldozed."

"I still don't get why we are here," John mumbled. "What are you hoping to find from air."

Sherlock dug out his phone.

"Cheat."

"It is not cheating, there are no hard copies," Sherlock argued. "Everything was scanned in and then destroyed."

John shook his head in triumph.

"Look," Sherlock said, standing behind him and holding the phone screen on front of John. "The builders were told to demolish the south side."

"Right," John nodded. "I saw the message he sent."

"Mm. But our Indian lover was thick." Sherlock scanned his aps and selected a compass.

"They demolished the south side," John said, looking from the compass to the building.

"The idiot was working with the gate as north."

John tilted his head. "So…the room he wanted to have destroyed…they're still there."

Sherlock nodded. "They're still there," he confirmed.

* * *

The rooms were dusty, strewn with leaves and almost haunting in their silence. If this were London there would be squatters living in it, people coming and going to disrupt evidence.

This was as Dr Roylott had left it. How it had been once the house had been stripped of everything of value.

"It's a room," John said with a shrug, poking at the glassless window.

"It's been renovated," Sherlock argued, turning him around. "Look."

John sighed and shook his head. "Why would you renovate a room and then plan to have it knocked down?"

"Excellent. Keep going."

"You want me to keep asking questions?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Okay…why…why…why are there no holes in the wall? Everyone has holes from pictures."

"Excellent," Sherlock beamed. "And the answer would be?"

"He was that much of a wanker."

No, Sherlock deflated slightly. "Why would he not want pictures on the wall?"

"I…"

"How can you tell?"

"I just told you. No holes."

Sherlock nodded.

"So he didn't want the walls damaged?" John asked.

"Because?"

"I...Supporting wall?" John asked, looking as if he was scraping the barrel for an idea.

"Almost," Sherlock said with a spin. "Come," he snapped, tugging John into the next room. The room that had been Roylott's. A glance at the plastered square told him he had been completely right in his guess.

"What's odd?"

"Nothing."

"Where are the holes?" Sherlock asked, sticking to the one thing that John had picked up on.

John shook his head. "None on that wall."

"And how thick is it?"

John blinked and stepped back. "Wait…" he tilted his head, turned and walked out.

Sherlock smirked.

John came back a few seconds later. "Is there a hidden wardrobe or something?"

Sherlock pointed at the plastered over square above their heads in the corner of the room. "Do the honours?" he asked, holding out a crowbar he had picked up.

John hefted it and stood on a box as he cracked the bar at the wall.

Plaster rained down upon him as the hole was revealed.

"What is that?" John asked.

"A grate," Sherlock said, peering up. "On the otherside, according to the pictures, Julia's bed was next to the wall and she had a canopy bed. Unusually indulgent of him it must be said, and a cord for the light dangling down to her pillow."

John blinked and turned to look up at it again. "So…"

"A snake."

John blinked at him. "Christ," he muttered. "How did they miss that?"

"I imagine it was a small bite. A rare snake's venom will not show up on an ordinary toxic screen. He may have excused it with a reasonable story."

"The hissing," John said, turning to gape at him. "And Julia, she said there had been a 'speckled band'."

Sherlock nodded.

"He…he set a snake on them?"

"Night after night," Sherlock confirmed. "Hoping that the snake would bite."

"How could you do that?" John breathed in horror. "Is there enough evidence to convict him?"

"No."

John leaned against the wall. "Would there have been if I let you use technology?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Don't be a moron," he scolded. "I wouldn't risk you wallowing in guilt. It would be boring for months."

John glanced over at him, a small smile lifting his lips. "She must have been terrified," he said a moment later, the smile vanishing again. "Helen, I mean. To know she was going to die, that no-one could work out how he was doing it." He traced his fingers along the ruined plaster. "So there's really no way to convict him?"

"I can relay my findings," Sherlock sighed, striding to the window. "It may be enough to try him but a conviction? Doubtful. There's too much time, too much that could be dismissed as circumstance."

Outside the wind dragged at the trees and the noise was surprisingly loud from where they stood. The garden was wrecked and, just behind the trees at the bottom of the old garden, the cliff threatened.

"Another fifteen years and this will be gone," Sherlock said, staring at it.

"Good," John said quietly.

Sherlock nodded, then tilted his view slightly. In the distance was a small cottage almost on the cusp of the cliff.

There were lights within.

* * *

"You know whose cottage this is, don't you?" John asked as they made their way over.

"Percy Armitage," Sherlock murmured. "Helen's fiancée."

He opened the gate and they walked up the path.

"Think this is a good idea?" John asked doubtfully. "I mean…we can hardly guarantee him justice."

"We can give him knowledge," Sherlock replied as he tapped on the door.

John shot him a strange look but said nothing as the door opened.

* * *

"You've been quiet," Sherlock observed once they were back at the cottage. They had just beat the night back to base and John was fiddling with the fire.

"He was relieved," John said as the flames started to catch the wood. "To know what had happened. Even after all this time."

"He'll sell now," Sherlock said as he settled on the floor.

"Why?" John asked.

"He couldn't leave until the answer was found. Not if something had been missed."

"Would you have-" John shook his head.

"Kept looking?" Sherlock nodded. "You know that."

John bit his lip. "Would you…once you had found out. I mean if I had…" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is a stupid question to ask."

"I would have mourned," Sherlock said quietly. "Mourned…lost opportunities. A friend."

"That's normal isn't it?" John asked. "That's the normal way to deal with it. I…my reaction was not normal. When I thought you were dead…you haunted me. And when you didn't…when I could forget you that was worse."

"You thought I'd committed suicide," Sherlock said, watching John closely. "And then you thought I'd sacrificed myself for you. Those circumstances are not normal."

"Mm," John said, his face illuminated by the flames.

"Your reaction was my protection," Sherlock said quietly.

"And your fall was mine," John replied.

What could he say to that?

"I imagined…when I was gone I imagined returning. A hundred scenarios," he said, staring at the flames. "Seventy eight percent of them had you furious."

John said nothing.

"Fifteen was fainting or shock. The rest…a foolish hope to have you confess your desire. A hero's return. But this…never this. I never wanted you to be hurting."

"I'd have hit you," John said frankly. "I hit a wall instead."

Sherlock blinked and tilted his head. "Ah," he murmured, "I would have deserved it," he added gently.

"No," John said quietly. "I fell as much as you did, Sherlock."

Slowly, Sherlock reached across the floorboards and covered John's hand with his own. "We're getting back up again, aren't we," he said softly.

John spread his fingers, allowing Sherlock's to interlock with his. "Yeah," John said swallowing. "I think you've been dragging me back up," he added with a rueful attempt at a smile.

Smirking at the idea, Sherlock pulled on his hand, pulling John back and closer. Burying his nose in John's shoulder, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John.

It was strange. It felt like there should be something to say. That he should try to give John some credit or talk more about it, yet…no words came.

"Never again," Sherlock promised. "Together. Always together."

John nodded.

"And with technology," the insufferable man added a few minutes later. "You lost that bet."

"There wasn't a hard copy of the blue prints-" Sherlock started to protest.

John chuckled. "I used a satnav to get us there."

Sherlock shook his head, trying not to laugh. "You were in the army," he scolded.

"You'd brought the wrong fucking map."

Oh.

Chuckling, Sherlock buried his head in John's shoulder.

* * *

Next up: Epilogue :)


	17. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Thank you to those that have been reading, even through the rather long hiatus in the middle! And a huge thank you to NicolettelliW for betaing :D

* * *

The murder scene was a mess, John thought with a sigh. Blood up the walls from the repeated stabbing, the body a mangled piece of flesh that barely bore resemblance to a human.

Craig, the young lad who had found it had just about finished throwing up.

Wordlessly, John handed him some water as they sat on the wall to the side of the scene. Craig grabbed at it eagerly, his thin face looking both old and young.

Kid couldn't have been more than seventeen, John thought looking out across the road. He'd been leaving the centre when Craig had turned up, eyes wild and terrified, words tripping over themselves as he tried to frantically explain what he'd seen.

"You ain't puking?" Craig asked hoarsely.

"Ex-army doctor," John said with a shrug. "Not the nicest thing in the world to look at but…I've just about seen worse."

"What you doin' at the centre then?" Craig asked. "Charity?"

The word was almost spat at John.

"Job," he corrected. "I work with those who have served usually. Usually people older than you."

Craig shot him a withering look. "You lot are shit," he muttered. "You ain't got a clue."

John glanced at him and undid his shirt cuff, pushing it up. "See these," he said, tilting his arm so the marks caught. The only marks left were from when he'd been bad and the shaking had torn his skin.

"Needle?"

John nodded. "I was homeless for a year," he said frankly. "Addicted for longer."

Craig's jaw squared. "You went back?"

He said it like one would ask if John had given in and taken the easy path.

John opened his mouth to reply and then looked up as the sirens came closer. "Word of warning," he said watching the cars. "The posh git in the fancy coat, don't hit him."

"Why? He gonna sue me?" Craig sneered.

"Nah. He's my husband though and if you hit him I might have to wallop you one back."

Craig blinked at him and a reluctant smile flashed for a second. "You got a high opinion of him," he muttered.

John laughed. "If you manage not to hit him I'll buy you breakfast. Most don't manage it."

Sherlock almost flew out of the car and completely bypassed John to get a look at the scene.

It was like watching a child run to the sweetshop, John thought with a sigh as Lestrade followed at a far more sedate pace.

"This the witness?" Lestrade asked with a tilt of his chin.

John nodded.

"You good to give a statement?" Lestrade asked Craig.

"Is it gonna be used?" the teenager asked, bristling as the rest of the unit came over.

Lestrade nodded. "You got eyes, kid. They're as good as any other."

A flash of nerves crossed Craig's face but he nodded.

"I'll send someone over," Lestrade looked at John. "You staying with him? We'll take the statement at the station."

"Yeah," John jumped off the wall. "Just let me have a quick word with his highness first."

* * *

"Oh this is glorious," Sherlock declared as he spun around the crime scene. "Look, the spatter patterns, John. Look."

"You do know there's a witness?"

Sherlock waved a hand. "He'll confirm my findings. Didn't see the assailant's face I assume. Nor the knife, not close up anyway."

"I'm going with him for the statement," John said, trying not to look too fond of the idiot.

Sherlock waved him on. "I'll meet you at St Bart's. You can tell me about the stab wounds."

"And we'll have our anniversary dinner there?"

Sherlock paused. "Ah, that," he said, turning with a slight hiss.

"One whole year," John said, folding his arms. "You forgot?"

"You texted me this," Sherlock declared. "I thought it was my present." He seemed to replay that sentence and then rolled his eyes. "I thought you knew what my reaction would be-"

John waved it away. "I did," he said with a smile. "I just…you do still need to eat."

"Dull. There is a crime, John," Sherlock said with utter sincerity.

"Mm," John looked at the body. "You have worked out that the victim was faking being homeless, right?"

Sherlock blinked at him, turned and stared. When he looked back he looked almost peeved. "I despise you can tell that from a glance," he muttered.

"Well, most people despise that you can tell their affairs from their shoes," John said with a shrug as he backed away. "Been faking for…ten days I'd say would be a good estimate."

"You're making it up now," Sherlock complained.

"You've seen everything I've seen," John said with a wink. "Solve it before tomorrow evening and I'll still buy you a meal."

Sherlock narrowed his gaze. "The case or what you saw?" he asked with a glare.

"The case," John said with mock annoyance. "If you don't manage to see what I saw I'll be getting scampi and chips for tea."

Sherlock's lip curled in distaste.

* * *

Hours later, after Craig had given his statement, John took him back to the centre and let the kid use the facilities there.

"I don't need this," the lad said as he shovelled up the scrambled eggs John had made.

John inclined his head. "If you say so," he said calmly. "Do you want it?"

Craig rolled his eyes. "That's a fucking cliché," he muttered.

"Then here's another one," John said with a sigh. "Going backwards is shit. Never go back. You can't. It's never the same. But you can go forward. And believe me, that's hard and it seems impossible some days. Some days…I thought I would die of humiliation. To have people know what I did. To have to explain to a man I loved that I'd traded my mouth for drugs, that I'd eaten out of bins and slept in a skip. People can't see you when your homeless but when you're trying to get back up…it feels like everything you've ever done is put under a spotlight and the world's a judge."

"So what's the point," Craig muttered, staring at the tablecloth.

John smiled. "Tell me what you see when you look at me."

Craig looked up and hesitated.

"It's one thing you've done. Good or bad Craig, it's still just one thing. It should never be the only thing."

"I…" the kid looked away. "I can handle this," he said determinedly.

"I couldn't," John said, biting down the words he wanted to say. Too many saw it as the only battle they could win – the ability to make some success out of the life they were stuck with on the streets. "But I get it," he said, sitting back. "When you have nothing else…your pride becomes the most precious thing in the world and no-one likes to ask for help, to feel that indebted."

"Did he help you?" Craig asked suddenly. "That man…your husband?"

John nodded and stood as he saw Frankie at the door. "You got anyone?" he asked.

Craig shook his head, jaw absolutely tight.

"Well," John said as Frankie came over. "You're about to."

* * *

"Here," John said tossing the sandwich at Sherlock.

The git turned it over a few times, sniffing in distaste. "Are you sure this is mine? Ploughman's? Really-"

John tossed him the duck wraps he'd picked up. "You're lucky," he added. "Sainsbury's does not have much on the shelf at six thirty in the morning."

Sherlock threw him back the sandwich. "Did your ward stay?"

"Craig? No, he vanished about twenty minutes after I'd left," John said as he sat himself down. "He'll be back though. I gave him scrambled eggs."

Sherlock looked up. "You overcook them," he said after a moment as he undid the packet. "Are you okay?" he asked in a softer tone

John nodded. "Rome wasn't built in a day."

Sherlock groaned. "Whoever is teaching you these pedestrian, useless sayings deserves to be shot," he huffed. "I despise your colleagues."

"Figure out what I saw yet?" John asked sweetly.

Sherlock threw him a filthy look. "I honestly think this meal is punishment enough," he said, eying his wrap warily.

"Ah well," John said, leaning over to kiss him. "Next time, yeah?"

He laughed as Sherlock scowled and caught the chain John wore under his jumper that held his wedding ring while he was at work.

"One year," Sherlock murmured, running a finger over the plain gold band.

John nodded. "and many more to come," he said with a smile.

Sherlock let go of the ring. "Depends on how many more foul wraps you bring me," he muttered.

"I sent you a murder," John argued, sitting back in his chair and opening the sandwich. "I'll try harder next year to provide appropriate food, shall I?"

"That would be preferable."

John laughed. "Yeah, well, one step at a time."

Sherlock smiled. "I'm not entirely sure how you would top the following year," he said, leaning back.

"I'll work on it."


End file.
